


Héliotrope

by Mars00135



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action, Arms Dealer Carlos Machado, Arthur Kirkland is Peter (Sealand) Kirkland's older brother, Arthur is Alfred's older cousin, Arthur's parents are dead, Assassin Berwald, Assassin Elizabeta, Assassin Felix Lukasiewicz, Assassin Gupta Hassan, Assassin Natalia Arlovskaya (Belarus), Assassin-Spy AU, BDSM Dungeon Master Gilbert, Bar Owner Carlos Machado (Cuba), British Intelligence Officer Arthur Kirkland, Bromance, CIA Agent Alfred Jones, Character Endangerment, Chef Kiku, Coffee and Late Night Chats, Composer and Conductor Roderich, Crime Syndicates, DGSE Agent Francis, Dark Humor, Double Agents, Ex-Spetnaz Ivan, F/F, F/M, Francis is Matthew (Canada) Williams' older half-brother, French Intelligence Officer Jeanne d'Arc, Gory at times, History Professor Tino, Humanitarian Vash Zwingli, Informant Gilbert, Informant Kiku, International Travel, Interpol Agent Alfred, Interpol Agent Francis, LOTS of violence, Lots of Psychological Trauma, M/M, MI5 Agent Yao Wang, MI6 Agent Antonio, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Neighbors to Friend to Lovers, Organized Crime, Pediatric Surgeon Erika Zwingli, Piercings, Professional Hockey Player Matthew Williams, Psychological, Restaurateur Kiku, Russian Intelligence Officer Ivan Braginsky (Russia), Serial Killers, Set in London, Smut, Spy Antonio, Spy Francis Bonnefoy, Spy Jeanne d'Arc, Spy Sadiq Adnan (Turkey), Tattoos, Thriller, UN Ambassador Ludwig, UN Ambassador Vash Zwingli, UN Ambassador Yekaterina Arloskaya (Ukraine), University Counselor Lovino, artist Feliciano, emotional smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mars00135/pseuds/Mars00135
Summary: Bored to death with his dead-end job with British Intelligence as a "handler," Arthur spends most of his nights drinking with friends and his days taking care of his younger brother. However, his mundane routine changes when he's assigned to a job outside of the norm for MI5.**My take on the spy-assassin genre with some much needed quirkiness and dark humor**





	1. Sorry Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicalatina449](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicalatina449/gifts), [SimplyTsundere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyTsundere/gifts).



\---------- _BERLIN_germany_ \----------

His eyes darted about the mirror quietly taking in the intensity of each bruise as it blossomed beneath his fair skin. Bottom lip split yet no longer bleeding. Ribs aching from the strain of the previous fights. Head throbbing from the horrendous migraine he had been nursing for the past three days. He was a mess. ' _This is what happens when you lose friends in deutschland,_ ' he smirked as he mocked his reflected image. This was supposed to be an easy trip. Or so the higher ups had told him. Although things were hardly ever easy when management came to him. That's why he was sent rather than one of his contemporaries. Because only he could do what he did. Only he could execute these orders without falling victim to the humanity he had locked inside a cage somewhere deep within.

Attention shifting when the cellphone on the bathroom counter pinged, he pressed his thumb to the center button to unlock the screen.

_Today 8:32 PM_  
_Club Honour in one hour. Gold tie and dark blue suit._

His face crinkled in disgust as he read the notification. Who in their right mind would wear that hideous combination? Sighing as he sat the phone down with its face down, he gave his face one last look over. This wasn't going to be easy to hide; especially that busted lip.

Turning the faucet on, he dumped the ice in the crystal brandy glass on the counter into the sink as it filled, grabbed his golden shoulder length hair by the handful and held it back as he dunked his face in the chilled water. Swishing from side to side, he pulled back with a loud gasp then shook the droplets from his face and hairline. Flipping the phone over, he unlocked it once more and set a timer for forty minutes before proceeding to open the music library. Pressing play, he bobbed his head along to the beat of "Rubberband Man" by The Spinners with a wry smile. 

Opening the black patent leather mini travel bag on the laundry hamper lid he pulled out a bottle of foundation, setting spray, bronzer, a yellow concealer stick for the bruises, and his toner. Patting the maple serum onto his skin he began to gingerly dab the concealer onto his left cheek and jaw and the area around his right eye. They had really done a number on him last night. So much so that the bruises had skipped the red stage and gone straight to purple and blue. Thankfully he had been raised by a family of women and wasn't too worried about the marks showing once he was down with them.

Reaching for the blending sponge, he worked in the first layer of concealer before adding a second with a little bit of green concealer around the edges to cover up the parts that were a bit darker than the others and weren't vanishing with the yellow. Adding to that a thin layer of foundation with touches of bronzer where they were needed, he blended it together again, gave his reflection a quick once-over, then smiled and sprayed himself with the setting spray. Dabbing his wrists against the open mouth of his cologne bottle, he rubbed them against his neck, closed the bottle, and tucked everything back into his travel case.

Waltzing into the bedroom he removed the towel from around his waist as he looked through the numerous suits hanging in his closet. He wanted something that would give him full range of movement while also maintaining style and breathability. Settling on the tailored black Armani number he paired it with a black button down, and perfectly polished black dress shoes with his lucky red socks. No tie this time around. Last night he lost one--his favorite blue silk tie he had bought back home--so tonight he'd go without. Slipping into his slacks and socks, he fixed a holster to each calve with a concealed dagger then proceeded to tuck in his shirt tails before shrugging on his blazer. Removing the money clip from his briefcase, he checked to make sure the black credit card was in there before sliding it into his inner breast pocket.

Phone and room key in hand, he left the hotel room. Smiling at the young woman at the concierge desk, he winked at the man standing next to her from over the rim of his black circle sunglasses--chuckling when the man blushed and the woman whipped her head to the side to glare at her colleague. There was already a car waiting for him at the curb. Courtesy of Her Majesty and Countrymen. Without a word, it peeled away from the curb and sped off to their destination. While in route, his phone pinged again.

_Today 9:12 PM_  
_Request cleared. Keep it clean._

Clean? Last night was supposed to be clean. The job in Moscow was too but there were unexpected hiccups. _Big_ hiccups that had not been accounted for. This time he was playing it safe. Unlocking the screen he typed out "Have all heads been accounted for? How many should I expect there?" Not to his surprise, they answered rather quickly.

_Today 9:15 PM_  
_Three. Keep things civil and don't cause a scene._

" _When do I ever cause a scene?_ ” he teased with an arched brow and a small snicker before glancing to the driver to make sure he was minding his own business.

_Today 9:17 PM_  
_I'm serious 55. Don't pull any stunts like you did in Luxembourg._

_" _Well, since you asked so nicely._ "_

_Today 9:19 PM_  
_Ass._

He just laughed. It was too easy sometimes. How could he not tease when the reactions he got in return were so wonderful? He slipped his phone into his jacket pocket as they pulled up to the club. Tipping the driver as he exited, he took a long look at the establishment backlit by the vibrant glow of the neon lights that stained the sky of Berlin at night. ' _Time to go to work,_ ' he thought silently; the cool mask dropping to cover what he was hiding inside. Approaching the front entrance, he flashed the gold leafed Queen of Hearts playing card that he had nicked off one of the guys he had "played" with the night before. His expression remained calm and confident as the bouncer briefly checked it before nodding him in. 

Flashing the German beefcake a flirtatious smile--loving the interested glance he earned in return--he entered the club. The scene was exciting and underwhelming all at once the same way one would feel when they arrived somewhere and found that it was exactly what they were expecting yet not what they were hoping for. Dim with red and gold lights illuminating the paths patrons could take as well as the alcoves for them to sit at, he casually moved through the open space packed with well-heeled elites and their mistresses or twenty-something year old pets. Politely turning down those who tried to stop him or buy him a drink, his eyes fell upon a lone man at the far edge of the central bar in a dark blue suit with a gold tie. 

' _Just as tacky as I thought it'd be,_ ' he smirked though the expression did not reach his eyes. 

Removing his sunglasses--placing them in the second breast pocket, he sat down five stools away from the man in the blue suit; ignoring his existence the same way he did everyone else. Ordering a Boulevardier in a lowball glass, he could feel the eyes of another on him burning holes into his skin. ' _That was fast,_ ' he mused as he took a sip from his drink before daring a glance to his right. Sure enough, the man was staring at him--his dark lacquer eyes studying him as if he were appraising a work of art he intended to buy. He was so obvious though most men that batted for home in Germany were obvious. That was the beautiful thing about the country. It made jobs like these easy because he had no issue deploying his charm when needed. 

Looking away for a minute, he stared down into his drink for a long minute--faking a shy smile before looking up again. Eyes locking, he could see the hunger in Mr. Blue's deep gaze. Could feel the lust wafting off of him in waves. He had to admit, had this not been for work perhaps he would have humored Blue; maybe even take him out for a couple of test drives then ditch him in the morning. But this was a work trip and he had no time to play around. Pulling his phone back out when it vibrated in his pocket, he bit his lip with a click of his tongue when he saw the message. 

_Today 9:45 PM_  
_Pick up at 10:10. Remember to keep it clean._

"Bad news I take it," said a voice off to his left; it accented with the most alluring Moroccan accent. 

Looking up, he smiled softly. "You could say that." 

"Work?" 

He feigned an exasperated sigh. "Yeah. It's been a long week and I needed a moment to unwind but," he paused with a tilt of his head as he shook the hand he was holding his phone in, "work can't afford me any breaks." 

Mr. Blue smiled sympathetically. "What's your name?" 

"Why?" 

"Because I want to buy you a drink?" 

"And you need my name to do that?" 

Mr. Blue laughed, leaning against the bar--his predatory gaze burning now. "You are by far the most interesting person here." 

Licking his lips, he looked the man up and down. "Rene. You?" 

"Roni." 

"How fitting," he smiled again; it taking on a more devilish demeanor. "Unfortunately Roni, I need to leave soon to catch a flight." 

"That's too bad. I would've loved to help you unwind a bit." 

There it was--the invitation he was looking for. "Well," he hesitated; turning on the stool so that he could place a hand on Mr. Blue's chest--his fingers wrapping around the gaudy gold tie. "I do have twenty minutes before I have to go. Have any ideas as to how you're going to help me unwind?" 

\---x---x---x---x---x---x--- 

Door slamming shut behind them, he was pressed into the wall with palms flat against the tile while Mr. Blue's left hand tangled in the hair that came loose from his bun as the other slide down the front of his pants--palming his half-hard cock with a pleased smile. Back arching into the sensation as lips trailed down his neck, he glanced to the watch on his wrist. ' _Ten minutes,_ ' he noted with a sly smile becoming more amused the more famished Mr. Blue became. The man greedily clawed at his pants and the tails of his shirt just for another taste of that smooth creamy skin. 

Both men and women had always been fascinated by him. Had always coveted him and courted him only to be rejected. It was a horrible pattern that often repeated itself because he just couldn't pay attention to someone longer enough to muster up the will to care. However, right now, he was thoroughly amused and tickled pink to see how enraptured Mr. Blue was. It was so easy. Far too easy. So much so that he knew if this dragged on for much longer then he'd get bored and bad things happened on jobs that bored him. 

Gasping when Mr. Blue thrusted two fingers into him without warning, he bit back a yelp and disguised it as a moan. ' _Putain merde, fils de pute!_ ' With the way Mr. Blue was savagely pushing into him and biting his neck, one would think he was raised by wolves. It was just another reason to finish him off sooner rather than later. Choking on the stalled breath in his lungs as the full length of the man's member pushed inside without any care for him, he braced himself against the wall and tried to loosen himself up so that this wouldn't seem like a total scam. 

Moaning like a bored housewife waiting for her husband to finish up so that she could go to sleep, he faked it beautifully. Every groan and whimper. Each sultry moan that was dripping with arousal that drove Mr. Blue even deeper into this delirium. All of it was for the sake of distracting the man from what his hands were doing. Stopping him halfway through when the first feral growl came from the brute thrusting into him, he turned around with a leg wrapped around the man's waist. 

"I want to see your face when you cum," he whispered into his ear with a taunting bit to the earlobe. 

"Fuck," Mr. Blue heaved with mounting lust as he grabbed his hips so that he could thrust as deep as he could into the blonde; smiling viciously when he hit his weak spot. "If only you were staying in Berlin a little longer. I could show you a real good time." 

"Really?" he questioned with a smile of his own while slowly and conscientiously reaching for his ankle. Twisting the fingers of his other hand into the dark hair atop Mr. Blue's head, he laughed deep in his throat when he saw how it spurred the man on. "And just what would you do?" he asked, now seeing spots as the man finally started hitting where it felt best. Biting his bottom lip with a smile, he leaned in close so that their lips brushed along one anothers. "Tell me Roni. What would you do to me?" 

"I'd tie you to the bed and fuck you until you were hoarse from screaming my name," he grunted, his hips faltering as his climax crept closer. "You'd cum so many times just from having me in you, you'd feel it for days." 

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"I'd like to see that. Do it, right now," he said squeezing down on him tighter, urging Mr. Blue to his finish. "You close?" Smirking when he shook his head, he wrapped his arms around his neck then whispered, "Cum for me." 

As if trained to obey, Mr. Blue came undone the moment the words were spoken. It was in the heat of the moment when the man wasn't paying attention that he swiftly withdrew the concealed mini dagger from the holster on his right leg and drove it into the juncture of his clavicle and neck where the carotid artery dipped into the chest cavity. Holding him tight as Mr. Blue tried to push him away, he withdrew the blade and drove it back into him--slicing through the windpipe to stop anyone from hearing him. 

Dropping his hoisted leg back down to the ground, he gently laid Mr. Blue down on the tiled floor all while making sure he was near a drain so that the blood wouldn't spread far from the body. Well, whatever blood managed to seep out of his chest cavity. Holding Mr. Blue's horrified gaze as he gasped for air--it coming in ragged wretched rasps that rattled in his lungs and gurgled in his slit throat--he smoothed his hair back a placed a small kiss to his forehead. 

"Consider this a payment for every child you sold into prostitution," he spoke lowly against the flushed skin of his forehead. 

Choking on his own blood as it spilled from his lips, he croaked, "W-Who are y-you?" 

Sitting up, he smirked. "Wouldn't you love to know." 

"B-Bitch..." 

It was the last word to leave Mr. Blue's lips before he took his final breath. Shiver rolling down his spine as he watched the life leave the man's deep eyes, he leaned against the wall behind him, closed his own eyes and took in a long steadying breath to quell the nausea stirring in the pit of his stomach. Another minute passed and a third and a fourth before he found the strength to stand up. Grabbing a handful of paper towels from the basket near the sink, he wiped the cum from his thighs and stomach then pulled his slacks up. Fixing his shirt and blazer next, he splashed cold water on his face--effectively breaking him free from his daze. Raking his hands through his long golden hair, he pulled it back into a bun--frowning when he spotted the two hickeys that had been left on his neck. 

Glancing to Mr. Blue out of the corner of his eye through the mirror, he hated the shred of remorse he always felt when he took a life. The man was a piece of shit. The lowest breed of filth to grace the earth and had kidnapped and sold more children into slavery than any other trafficker on Interpol's radar. Yet still, he was a human too. A disturbed, perverted, and deeply flawed human yet one nonetheless and he had just ended his life. Had just stolen his last moments. Had robbed him of his last breath the way he had so many others before Mr. Blue. The man wasn't his first and he wouldn't be the last either. 

A ping came from his breast pocket. Just in time to tame the human side of him trying to speak reason to the cold-hearted killer present in his mind in that moment. 

__Today 10:05 PM_  
_Your chariot has arrived._ _

Swallowing back the pain, exhaustion, and disgust, he straightened his jacket once more then left the bathroom whilst slipping into his sunglasses before entering the main room where the cameras could catch sight of him. Spotting Mr. Blue's two friends off to the side as they forced a path through the crowd toward the restrooms, he disappeared into the sea of moving bodies the way a shadow slides in and out of view in a moonlit room--intangible and elusive. Nodding once to the man at the coat check and smiling at the flustered bouncer as he exited the Club Honour the same way he had come--unnoticed and nondescript. Just the way he liked it. 

Sauntering up to the curb where the sleek black Royce was parked with the motor running, he jerked his chin in greeting to the driver up front. Opening the door, he slunk inside--sighing happily as he was welcomed by the soft cushy leather seat and air conditioning. It was so humid that evening that he was starting to feel the need to rebel against his own suit. Squirming and stretching lazily as the cramped joints of his spine crackled and popped back into place, he opened his eyes and rolled his head to the side--flashing a genuine smile at the man in the reverse facing seat across from him. 

"You look pleased with yourself," said the older gentleman with golden eyes and hair as white as starlight. 

"You could say that. Don't worry, I kept it clean just for you Niels." 

Arching a brow when he saw the blonde wince when he twisted his hips wrong, Niels stared him down. "Don't tell me..." 

"Don't ask." 

"I told you to stop using _that_ to gather information Francis." 

"I wasn't gathering information tonight, I was murdering someone," he corrected as he lifted his head again--eyes open and challenging. "And I don't see the problem with using my body to my advantage. The man was clearly interested and it helped get the job done quicker." 

"But someone could hurt you." 

"And I can hurt them back." 

Exhaling through his nose, Niels knew this wasn't an argument he was going to win, shook his head and crossed his legs as if he were a disgruntled mother picking her child up from the headmasters office. "There's just no talking to you sometimes." 

"How 'bout we agree to disagree and end things there. I'm exhausted, my hips are killing me, and I could really use a bath right about now." 

"Well all of that will have to wait until we cross the border into Poland. When we get to the safehouse you can do as you please then we'll leave from there in the morning and fly back to Lyon. Clear?" 

Francis nodded but not before his brows furrowed. "Question." 

"Yes?" 

"Why exactly are you here?" 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

_\---------- _LONDON_england_ \----------_

Eyes lazily peeling open to the sound of birds chattering outside his bedroom window, Arthur was greeted by a pair of wide blue eyes and a goofy smile. Moments later he groaned as the alarm clock greeted him with "Mr. Blue Sky" by ELO. Grunting as he sat up, he reached across the queen size bed with its blankets and sheets in disarray and smacked the top of the clock to turn it off. Stretching awake as the little cretin in the bed sat up on his knees and began to bounce in place, Arthur let out a pleading cry as he fell back onto the bed. 

"It's too early for this you little monster." 

"No it's not," Peter, his brother, smiled wryly between heavy breaths as he continued to shake the mattress. "Come on, you said we'd hang out today and it's already noon." 

"Noon?" Arthur's eyes shot open as he sat up looking at the clock this time in alarm. "Crap, I'm gonna be late for my meeting." 

Peter's expression immediately fell and he stopped where he stood--his mouth ajar with from shock. "What?! No! You promised we'd play video games and watch movies today! Artie?!" 

"I'm sorry Pete. They told me at the last minute that I had to come in today. It's just going to be a short meeting. I promise." 

"You say that every time," he countered as he followed his brother into the en suite bathroom. Hopping up onto covered toilet seat, he sat there with his arms folded across his chest and brows furrowed as he pouted. "How long is it going to be?" 

"Eh?" Arthur turned to look at the tween as he patted his face dry after splashing it with cool water. 

"How long?" 

"An hour or two. Three tops but I can't see them doing that on a Friday." 

"What's it about?" 

Arthur snorted a laugh as he grabbed his electric shaver and did a quick skim over the subtle five o'clock shadow along his jaw. "You know I can't tell you." 

"Why?" 

"Because part of my job is to keep secrets." 

"Why?" 

"Because it is." 

"Why?" 

Arthur rolled his eyes then turned to tickle Peter on his sides. "Because you little monster, that's how it is when you work for Queen and country," he laughed as the boy did too; Peter squirming as he laughed and lit up the room with his childlike charm. Kissing the boy on the forehead, Arthur flicked his nose. "I'm sorry I have to go in. I promise, when I come home we'll hang out and play video games and watch all the scary movies you want." 

" _And...?_ " Peter leaned forward, squinting his eyes as he waited to hear the last bit of the apology. 

"And we'll order takeout from Miss Lee's Kitchen. Happy?" 

"Very. Well then," he chimed as he stood up and straightened out his sleeping shirt, "I'll let you get to it. The sooner you leave the sooner you can come back." 

"That's not how it works kiddo." 

"Anyways I'm going to go make something to eat. Also you may want to get the AC checked because my room's hot and it won't cool down." 

"So that's why you were in my room." 

Peter smirked. "That and I wanted to confirm something." 

"Which is?" 

"You drool in your sleep," he smiled like a cat who'd eaten the family canary. Dodging the hand towel Arthur threw at him, Peter called back as he left. "Remember to brush your teeth and floss!" 

Arthur rolled his eyes with a small laugh. Peter was starting to resemble their mother more and more every day; especially now that he was on the cusp of his teen years and had hit his first growth spurt. Lingering on the thought for a moment longer, he sighed then swung the mirror open to grab his foundation and blending sponge from the medicine cabinet shelf along with the setting powder. Years ago, Peter had asked him why he covered up the tattoo's on his neck and shoulders and the one behind his ear. He was so young then that he didn't understand the difference between going out grocery shopping and going to a meeting and that each had it's own set of rules and wardrobes. Even now--though he was older and understood why he had to cover them up--the kid did not agree with it. Believed that employers should allow tattoo's in the workplace especially if they're as pretty and cool as Arthur's as Peter had said years ago. 

Concealing the intricate compass rose tattoo on the back of his neck bordered by roses and pinpoint stars without having to look in the mirror, he continued blending the foundation--working it over to the space just below his clavicle where the words "Wait for me somewhere between reality and all we've ever dreamed." There came a moment though when his hand stopped and his eyes bore into the tattoo. He could still remember the day he had gotten it. Could still remember how Kiku told him to wait a little longer; wait until his mom had been in the ground for longer than a day. But he couldn't. He needed to have the words scoured into him as if to remind him--to make sure that he remembered her and all she had taught him and his brother. 

Swallowing hard, he bit back the tears he could feel welling up inside and the pang of guilt in his stomach. It had already been four years since she had passed yet it was still fresh in his mind. The loneliness. The sense of abandonment. That sickening smell of bleach and floor cleaner that clung to the walls of the hospital at every turn. The constant beeping and chittering of machines as they fought to keep her alive; fought to keep her tethered to this world. All of it, he could still remember all of it as if it had happened a week ago. As if he was still that uncertain university student that had just become the guardian to his own brother as he sat beside his mother's body staring at the heart monitor in disbelief. Could still remember his friends coming to console him. Could recall how his boss looked at him when he offered him the new position that had opened up with the investigative department--her knowing that he'd need the income to take care of his brother. 

"Right," he sniffled as he got back to getting ready. "No use in dwelling on that." 

It was as he reached for the setting powder that he heard loud voices hollering at one another down below and what must've been a lift of some sort--possibly attached to a van of sorts. Looking out the bathroom window, Arthur was shocked to find movers parked outside the brick townhome next to his. It had been vacant for the better half of a year. Likely because the price was well over budget for most prospective homeowners. It also didn't help that Peter yelled when he was playing his video games and that the sound carried throughout the vaulted living space adjacent to his room. Yet, despite that and much to Arthur's surprise, the townhome had been bought. By who, he did not know. Hopefully the new neighbors would keep to themselves and be less invasive than the ones before them. The Leads were nice for the most part--a quiet older couple yet they had a penchant for gossip and loved asking Arthur questions about his work. Questions that not even Peter or his closest friends knew the answers to. Fingers crossed, the newcomers would mind their own business and stay out of his. 

Stepping into the bedroom, he changed out of his boxers and sleeping shirt and slid into a pair of dark blue slacks, his nice polished burnished brown Oxford flats with a belt to match, and a crisp white button down--the sleeves of which he rolled up to his elbows because, as Peter had mentioned, it was indeed a hot day. As beautiful and lively as London proper was at all times of the year, the weather was particularly dreadful in July when the humidity was off the charts and the heat compounded with it to make the city inhabitants miserable. More of a swamp and less a metropolis, one had to be prepared for sporadic rainfall, blistering heat, and humidity and low nighttime temperatures. His father had once said that not just anyone could stand living in England and even more so in London. Sure enough, with time, Arthur found credit in his old man's words. 

Fastening his watch to his left wrist, he flipped his wrist over to check the time--eyes blowing wide when he saw it was already one-fifteen. Grabbing his briefcase and sunglasses, he hurried down the stairs and entered the kitchen briefly to grab a scone and the insulated tumbler of coffee Peter had waiting for him on the counter. Ruffling the kid's messy flaxen hair on his way out, he caught the bus just in time to make the connecting transfer from the National Army Museum to the Victoria depot. Sitting on the lower level of the bus, Arthur was busying himself with reading the latest news on his phone when he felt the eyes of another on him. Glancing up past the rim of his reading glasses he spotted a young girl staring at him. She was likely the daughter of the couple next to her; tourists from the looks of it if their fanny packs and stark white trainers were anything to go by. That and the father had a gut bigger than his head; something few Londoners had since everyone walked and ran everywhere and only took cabs and buses when they were running late or if their destination was out of the way much like Arthur's was. 

Nose wrinkling and brow arching when the girl stuck two fingers in her mouth and pulled the corners of her lips down with her tongue sticking out, he just ignored the bored youth and turned his attention back to his phone though only for a minute. A moment later he was exiting the bus to catch the second that would take him from Victoria to Millbank where headquarters was located. It was a short stop away from their sister organization--the SIS which was located back on the banks of the Thames by Vauxhall Bridge. Nicknamed "Lego House" by her agents, the Vauxhall building would have been a more fitting location for their meeting that afternoon considering it involved more agents and components from the MI6 team than it did the people over at MI5. But scheduling and location management wasn't Arthur's department so he went where he was told and didn't make a fuss. 

Greeting Todd, Fredricka, and Corey who ran security at the front, Arthur swiped his badge at the elevator after making it through the line for the metal detectors. Only handlers, big wigs, and agents were allowed access to the top three floors of the building for security purposes. This was especially true after the helicopter incident years ago after which both MI5 and MI6 were put on high alert for espionage and attacks to the facilities exteriors. Thankfully it was just a tragic incident wherein the helicopter malfunctioned mid-flight minutes after take off. Or at least that was what he and the rest of the staff had been told. 

Stepping off the lift, Arthur did a subtle double take when he saw three unfamiliar faces lingering in the hall up ahead. Even more intrigued was he when he heard them speaking French. It wasn't often that representatives from the DGSE came around. Despite them being allies of the British, the agents of the Directorate-General for External Security did not play well with others and were notorious for doing what they liked when out on a job. That didn't make them any less brilliant. They had a spectacular track record that rivaled the SIS. But regardless of such, they usually sent their communications via email or voicemail. Hardly ever did they send an actual person to conduct discussions. 

As he approached the frosted glass doors of Director General's office, they swung open all on their own as if by command. Sitting at the head was, naturally, the director general Niels Windrum with his secretary Linus to the left and Richard Mayfield, the head of MI6 to his right. Scanning the group further, Arthur's stomach knotted when he saw the indomitable Herve Guillard--the head of DGSE--sitting beside Mayfield with four other men and women present. He had heard stories--whispered legends at this point--of the great untraceable Agent Guillard who assisted with the dismemberment of the Soviet Union, the liberation of thousands from internment camps in the far east, and the freeing of hundreds of enslaved women and men in Thailand, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. Now the head of DGSE and the acting executive officer for Interpol, Arthur couldn't fathom what possible incident could bring such a man to their doorstep. 

"Punctual as usual Officer Kirkland," Niels smirked; the expression wrinkling his face slightly as it reached his amber eyes that glowed behind a pair of black box-frame glasses. "Please, have a seat." Waiting until he had sat down parallel to Mayfield, Niels continued. "May I introduce Arthur Kirkland, senior officer of the witness protection unit and consultant to our forensics team at MI6." 

"Bonjour," Guillard replied with a slight smile; his expression still holding onto the cool edge it naturally possessed as he assessed Arthur. "You seem rather young for such praise. One would think you were still a student with that face." 

"He was a talented youth and we scouted him upon graduation from secondary school," Niels commented--he being rather proud of having such a person in his ranks. 

Shifting uncomfortably in place as the meeting began, Arthur's attention was slowly pulled away from the conversation and more toward the sound of nails clacking against the lacquered mahogany table top all the way on the other side of the long meeting room. Daring a glance to the side, his gaze was met by a sea of Aegean blue rimmed with the most enchanting shade of starlight blue he had ever seen. Framed by long lashes and long wavy gold hair that tumbled to the man's shoulders, Arthur wasn't sure if the person sitting at the far end was real or a figment of his imagination. He was so beautiful. So stunning though there was something darker surrounding him; an air of lethality that clung to him the way the cold loomed on a December morning. He wasn't an ordinary agent--not even by Interpol or the DGSE's standards. There was something...strange, something uncanny about him that it made Arthur's heart race and his palms sweat the longer the man stared at him. 

"...Thur?" called a voice. "Art..." it said again. "Arthur!" 

Snapping to attention, he turned to Niels. "Yes?" 

"This is Agent Bonnefoy," Niels repeated himself, his head motioning toward the man at the far end of the table. "Or Agent 55 for the Special Operations Unit." 

Agent 55. He had heard that moniker before. Had heard it whispered and spoken in quiet discussion the same way people at MI5 talked about Guillard--with respect but always in hushed tones as if he were some boogeyman searching for his next victim. ' _This is Agent 55,_ ' he thought to himself. The same man that had recently--or supposedly--single-handedly erased an entire human trafficking ring from existence leaving behind the dismembered and maimed bodies of its head executives. Such frightening power. Such fury and skill all compacted into a Frenchman that looked more fitting to be a model than an undercover agent. Perhaps that was why he was so good at his job. Nobody ever suspected the pretty faces. 

"After his latest mission, Agent 55 returned with rather startling information. The birth of a new trafficking ring that deals in arms and drugs has laid roots in London," Niels said, his voice somber though stoic. 

"What?" Arthur blinked in disbelief, his gaze darting between Bonnefoy and Niels. "How? We have numerous agents on assignment to make sure this doesn't happen." 

"They're nomadic," Bonnefoy interjected--he speaking for the first time since the meeting had started. "They have no digital footprint, they burn every communication received through their network, and regularly change locations. Anyone who tries to get out is shot on site and those suspected for betrayal are hunted down and killed." 

"And how did you hear about this?" 

Smiling that lethal smile he was known for, Bonnefoy reclined in his seat with his hands resting on his stomach. "I have my ways." 

He couldn't tell what it was about the man but something about Agent 55 made Arthur want to regress inwards and hide from his gaze. It was so invasive--so piercing that it was criminal. Paired with that lovely face it was no wonder he was his agencies top operative. 

"During my investigation it was revealed to me that the Hound as they've come to be known have expanded to human trafficking and kidnapping for capital gains." 

"Which is why we have called this meeting," Niels finished. Glancing to Guillard, he leaned forward while weaving his fingers together into an arch to which he pressed his lips. "This syndicate is one of the greatest threats to the civilians of England. They do not discriminate and target men and women ranging between the ages of eight to thirty. They have been known to take children and sell them at auction regardless of the buyer. Some have turned up dead with organs missing while others are found in brothels." 

"Why are we only now involving ourselves when they've been here for God knows how long?" Arthur demanded. 

"Because they weren't here," Bonnefoy answered casually. "They were an international organization that _recently_ established roots here, just like we said earlier in the conversation." 

"Thank you for the reiteration," Arthur sneered, not too keen on how the agent was speaking to him. 

Clearing his throat, it was Guillard who spoke this time. "As much as it pains me to admit, Interpol and the DGSE can no longer manage this case without the assistance of MI5 and MI6. We have requested a joint effort in the eradication of the Hound and our wishes have been granted. As such, we expect the full cooperation of both organizations in exchange for our compliance." Noticing that Arthur still appeared to be very much confused, Guillard made his intentions clear. "Officer Kirkland, you are the head of your division and come highly recommended for human interest cases which is why I have paired you with Agent 55. You will assist him in the capture of the Hound's leaders who are to be brought to justice, whole and _alive_ ," he said, placing emphasis on the last word as his eyes darted to Bonnefoy. 

Arthur said nothing; couldn't say anything because he was so far in over his head that he didn't know where to start. 

Chuckling, Bonnefoy clicked his tongue at the poor bloke. "Sorry baby," he smirked. "Looks like you're stuck with me." 


	2. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis is paid a visit and Arthur is taken by surprise...
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> TRIGGER WARNING!: Rape and domestic abuse are very briefly discussed in this chapter so tread lightly.

Biting his bottom lip with a smile, Francis danced and grooved across the spacious living room of his new town home; he loving how impressive the acoustics were in the building. Carefully stepping over the silk cushion where Isis--his deceptively charming yet ferocious long haired black cat he found nosing through the trash in a Paris back alley four years ago--was relaxing, mouthed the words to "A Lot" while searching for the second large black travel carrier he had sent over from his flat in Paris. Sifting through the cardboard boxes of clothing, shoes, paintings, and books--so many books--be found the case he was looking for wedged between the large cream colored couch and the wooden crate that held his two Dali's and the Chagall he inherited from his great grandmother.

"Pardon moi bebe," he said sweetly to Isis who sauntered off to the fawn colored leather armchair on the other side of the living room as he unearthed the case.

Dragging it out from clutter, Francis lifted the carrier case with a strained grunt. It had been years since he had moved the massive box--not since he had moved from Lyon to Paris when he had been promoted to work with the SO unit. Pressing the pads of his thumbs and forefingers against the glass pads embedded in the underside of the handle. Waiting for the triple beep and the clicking of locks unlocking, he opened the case with a relieved smile. Organized in the fitted black foam were all of his firearms, blades, daggers, and vials filled with the compounds he used to make the poisons he was sometimes required to bring on certain jobs. Carefully, he went through each of the three levels--checking every weapon and assessing its condition. Brows pinching when he saw a small speck of blood on his push dagger, likely leftover from his trip to Berlin, he pulled the dagger and its holster from the case and headed down the stairs to the second floor where the kitchen was.

Swerving to miss the hip-height tower of stacked boxes next to the dining table and the crate of vintage aged wines that were nestled in paper straw packaging he nosed through the box by the sink labeled "cleaners." Pulling out the small washcloth he kept with the supplies, Francis turned the faucet on and rinsed the blood from the dagger--wiping it gently with the terry cloth, inspected it again more closely, then turned the water off. Leaving the cloth on the counter to be washed later he then greased the blade end of the small black steel weapon then sharpened it against the sharpening stone he had placed on the kitchen island next to the block holding the cooking knives. Testing its edge against the skin of a grape sitting in the fruit basket on the counter next to the kitchen knives, he wiped the residue on the sleeve of his henley before slipping it back into its case.

Heading back up the stairs to the third floor, his foot slipped on the slick wooden flooring throwing him into a spiral as he fell backwards. Slamming down hard on his back--his head smacking the ground with a loud Thwack!--Francis laid there for a long moment, a groan rumbling through him as he blinked back the spots that were dancing across his vision. Face crumpling with a chuckle when Isis came to check on him--her sniffing his lips, nose, and eyes--he reached up to pet her soft head that was still warm from the sunshine she had been basking in by the window. Rolling his head to the side he kissed her small black nose, loving the sound of her gentle purring and how it grew louder as she nudged into his hand then tapped her face to his.

"Ma petite chérie. Tu t'inquiétais pour ton papa?" he asked when her nudging and neediness mounted the longer he stayed on his back. Isis was usually stoic and nonchalant but, at times, would show her concern for his well-being like she was in that moment. "Je suis désolée."

Grunting as he sat up, his smile grew when the cat climbed onto his lap and pushed her head up under his chin. Nuzzling against her in return, Francis smirked when she began chittering and nipping at his lip and nose. She was such a sweet animal. He couldn't even understand why someone would abandon her the way her previous owners had years ago. ' _Whatever. It's their loss,_ ' he smirked as he scratched Isis behind her ear. It was her weak spot as was the small patch directly underneath her chin.

Slumping back Francis jolted forward when his back made contact with yet another box. Pivoting to look over his shoulder, the light in his eyes dimmed faintly and his smile faded into something more somber. Releasing the feline as it stepped off his lap, he reached for the box and dragged it around to the front. Palms face down on the worn dusty folded flaps labeled 2013/05/30, he could feel the familiar burning pain in his chest. The same hollowness that he had ignored for years and sense of listlessness. It had been years since he had opened that box. Had nearly been a decade since he had last opened it and allowed himself to feel everything he'd been running from.

Glancing at the window as the early afternoon light spilled in and painted the floor in its golden gleam, he decided now was as good a time as ever to visit her. Sniffling already, Francis bit his bottom lip as his anxious hands opened up the box--pausing when the top revealed its contents like a long lost treasure trove. Reaching in, he pulled out a silk robe as blue as the sky after a storm. A heavenly blue for a heavenly creature. Testing the sensation of it on his skin for a long minute with baited breath, Francis curled his fingers into it and brought it up to his face--rubbing his cheek gently against the soft fabric and reveling in the ghost of a scent of jasmine and lilac that still clung to it. Burying his face in it as the loneliness crawled its way into the forefront of his mind, he took a deep breath in, held it in, and slowly let it out as he pulled away from the robe.

Slinging the robe around his neck--the sensation of the silk brushing against his skin sending shivers rolling down his spine--Francis smiled as he unearthed a corsage of dried yellow roses and white lilies and a pair of black beaten up Doc Martens with pastel pink laces. It was still amusing how small her foot was. His Jeanne. His star in the sky. Thumb swiping over the red heart he had drawn onto the heel of the stacked sole twelve years ago, Francis laughed at the smaller one she had drawn next to it in bright bubblegum pink. Setting those down to his left, his starry eyes light up when they spotted her red rosewood rosary with the patron Saint Jude on the reverse of the Mother Mary portrait fixed above the cross. Without a second thought he wrapped it around his hand, crossing his palm three times before it was just barely dangling between the fingers of his right hand.

It was incredible that the rosary was still in tact considering what it had been through and how many jobs she had taken it on. It had been eleven years since that Christmas--since he had gotten down on one knee in front of Notre Dame and asked her to marry him. She was holding the rosary in her trembling hands when she smiled with tears flowing from her dreamy blue eyes and said yes. Her, an angel who could have had anyone--could have married any man, picked him to spend her life with. She, a creature of divine love and forgiveness, picked him, a flawed damaged man, to have and to love. 

Beneath the rosary in the box was a relic he had forgotten about because remembering was just too agonizing. Even now Francis could feel the sharp blade being plunged into his chest--it twisting as he reached into the box and pulled out a hardcover of Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_. Opening the novel and flipping through its worn dogeared pages that had slowly started to yellow with time, the turning stopped at Chapter III of Book Seven. Hesitating, he stared at the text on the page for a moment--his fingers tracing the edge of it before digging his nail between it and the false stack of pages it had been glued to. 

Peeling the fake page back all the way, Francis dipped his hand in and brushed the butt of Jeanne's SIG Sauer P226 E2 pistol and its spare magazine. Underneath it was her favorite picture of him--sleep in the bay window of their old apartment in Lyon with their cat Minette on his lap. Adorning it were faded kiss marks of red and petal pink lipstick. Both she and him carried photo's of each other whenever they were out on a job. It was their way of staying connected like a charm or a spell that would bind them together no matter the nations or oceans between them.

"I'm sorry my love," he murmured. He could feel her ghost sitting beside him in that moment; her arms wrapping around him and smooth feather soft lips kissing his forehead. "You should have gotten out and left me when you had the chance."

Silently with an expressionless face he placed the barrel of the gun to the skin on the underside of his chin. Breathing in, he held his breath--his finger gently squeezing on the trigger then relaxing. Closing his eyes Francis gasped as he instinctively pulled the trigger, he wincing at the sound of the click echoing in the empty chamber. He held it there for a moment--body stiff and tense as the thought of what it would feel like to have a bullet put through his head course through his body and settled itself in his bones. Tried to imagine what it had been like for Jeanne in those last moments. How scared she must have been. Or maybe she hadn't been afraid at all. ' _You were always the bravest out of the two of us,_ ' Francis recalled as he slowly retracted the gun from his chin and placed it back in the fake-out book.

There came an abrupt knock at the front door downstairs as he began to repack the box of Jeanne's things. Freezing in place, Francis went through the list of people he knew in London that would visit him, those who were enemies that may be aware of the move, and then the possibilities that it could be someone sent to kill him from the three other cases he was working. Opening the false book, he grabbed the SIG and loaded it with the spare clip that had been stashed in there with it. Eyes narrowing on the stairway when the knocking came again Francis looked to Isis, shushed her when she started crying, then skillfully made his way down the stairs while making sure he dispersed the weight of his body evenly over the pads of his feet so that the wood beneath them wouldn't creek.

Descending like smoke rolling down a mountain pass with the gun secured by the band on the back of his sweatpants, he looked out the beveled glass that bordered the front entrance. But it wasn't of any use because the warping in the glass panels distorted the face and body of the visitor outside. The most he could gather for the quick peek he took was that the person was tall, had an average build, and was likely male from the look of their shoes. Reaching back with one hand, he switched off the safety before he opened the door with the other.

"Oh please, do glare at me more 55. I'm already wet in the pants," quipped the platinum blonde with a smile that was all too lascivious as he clutched the fabric of his shirt and moaned past the lip he was biting.

"Gilbert you ass!" Francis snapped as he grabbed his friend by the collar and yanked him inside. "Seriously, I could've shot you."

"Oh I wouldn't mind. You know I like it rough."

He could only roll his eyes. Gilbert--or the "King" as he often called himself--had been the same perverted kid since they had met in primary school. Mischievous, crude, and brutal when called upon to be so, he was far more strange than his younger brother who was built like a tank but didn't have a malicious bone in his body. Francis didn't know why they had gravitated toward each other during the days of their youth. Didn't understand what brought the Beilschmidt brothers to him when he was the angry closed off delinquent transfer student and they were the perfect over-achievers who were to inherit their family's fortune. Maybe it was because they were closet freaks like him or troubled in their own way. Either way, Francis had been stuck with them--namely Gilbert--since that day.

"So they finally got you to turn and join with MI6, eh? Well done England though I pity France for its loss," Gilbert sighed as he plopped onto the couch after they had wandered back upstairs to the living room. "Nice place you got. Great acoustics and spatial design."

"Thank you and I didn't leave the DGSE," Francis answered back--yanking the magazine out from under Gil's feet that were perched atop the newly polished coffee table. Reclining back into the cream canvas armchair, he stared at the man for a moment. "How did you know I was here? My transfer was kept off the books and no one but those in my immediate unit knew."

"I am the king darling. I know everything."

Again, Francis rolled his eyes. What else would he expect Gilbert to say.

"So," he droned as welcomed Isis onto his lap, "to what do I owe the honor for your visit?"

"Do I need a reason to visit a friend?" Sighing at Francis's reaction--the agent's brow arching suspiciously while his eyes scrutinized every move he made--Gil clicked his tongue. "Fine, be like that. I just wanted to check in and see how things have been since your last mission."

"We don't call them missions genius."

"Fine. Job, assignment, whatever. You've been radio silent for months and it's worrying Antonio and I."

"I'm fine," he lied. "I've been focusing on work recently because there are three cases I have to juggle and figure out a plan for."

"Is that really all there is to it?" Gilbert asked; his eyes darting discreetly to Jeanne's gun that had been placed on the coffee table behind the decorative centerpiece. "I know a hit has recently been put on for the high members of the Six. You aren't thinking about going for them are you?"

Glancing to the music player as "Love Songs On The Radio" by Mojave3, Francis humored the idea. Found it funny--the thought of what kind of expressions they would have on their faces if he came knocking on their door looking for revenge after five years of silence. What would they say? Would they panic and run? Would they try to fight? Try to defend themselves despite how they had trained him in his youth to surpass them? Just imagining it brought a smile to his face.

"Francis?" Gilbert spoke in a low curious manner.

"No," he said suddenly; his gaze meeting Gil's. "I won't go after them."

It was a lie and they both knew it but what did Gilbert expect from his old friend. For all the years he had known him--for all the troubles they had fared together that could have broken them, nothing had devastated him the way the loss of Jeanne had. Nothing had ever broken and distorted him as thoroughly as the trauma from finding her dead had. He was still the same person on the outside. Nothing had changed--not the length of his hair, the spark in his eyes, or the teasing lick in his voice. He was the same person he had always been to those who didn't know any better. But even now, there was something darker to him. Something...wrong and twisted. It hadn't taken hold of him yet but Gilbert could see it. Could sense it in the way he laughed and how the corners of his lips would faintly twitch whenever he forced a smile regardless of how natural it appeared to be.

"Antonio's coming into town next Tuesday. We should all go out for drinks and catch up," Gilbert offered. The air around them was too tense for humor.

"I'd like that."

Again, his smile wasn't as genuine as it could be. Wasn't as bright as it had been when they were young. Staring into the face of the man who could kill without thinking twice, Gilbert shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"You should also come by work sometime. I know a few people who could help you unwind," he joked.

Francis chuckled with a drawn out sigh as he slumped back into his chair. "I'm not too keen on dungeon play Gil. You know that better than anyone."

"Still, thought I'd offer our services just in case you had changed your mind while visiting Berlin."

"Like one trip to Germany could convert me. If anything, I'd like to be the one in control."

Gil clicked his tongue. "Sorry, we're all full on doms. Anway," he said with a grunt as he pushed up from the couch. "I should get going. I left Kat in charge of the shop and should really get back since we have a party coming in tonight."

"Oh really? Does it have a theme like last time?"

"Yes, yes it does," Gilbert said with a hint of execration in his tone.

"You don't sound too happy. Let me guess, it's baby play with adult diapers."

"Not even close."

"Pet play?"

"Closer."

"Oh no, not that..."

Gil sighed. "We've got a dozen furries coming in for a bachelor party."

Francis hissed an ouch. "Je suis tres _tres_ désolé mon ami."

"Moi aussi. I know it's not my kink but I just...I...you know what, never mind. I have to go set up the shop before they get there. The damn bastard rented out the dungeon for the night and requested all our best doms so duty calls."

"Well I wish you well and good luck."

"I'll need a spray bottle more than I'll need luck," he chuckled though his heart wasn't in it. Following Francis down the stairs to the front door, he hugged the blonde as if he were trying to impart a message that could only be told with silence. "Es war schon, dich zu sehen."

"It was good seeing you too, Gilbert." Watching with a small smile as he opened the door and walked toward the sidewalk, Francis shouted, "Remember not to get murdered and stay sexy."

In return and with a smile of his own, Gilbert shot him a flirtatious wink then headed off toward the underground station.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The same song had been playing on loop for the past four hours as Arthur stared at the massive cork board mapped with photographs, headlines, and police reports all in relation to the new assignment he had been forcefully given three days ago. Since then he had read every file, reviewed all the surveillance footage from numerous CCTV's, and listened to every audio file on hand. It wasn't how he had wanted to spend his three-day weekend nor had it been what Peter wanted him to do since that Friday was supposed to be their monthly trip up to Brighton to visit their grandmother. But work came first. It always came first and he wasn't about to be left out of the loop; especially now that he'd been partnered with one of Europe's finest.

Thinking back to the day they had met, he could not help but find it strange that Francis didn't have a personal file on record about him back at DGSE. Not only were any notes or trails on him kept hidden by his parent organization, but not even Interpol or MI6 had any dirt on the man. His history, medical records, family lineage--hell, even his favorite color and what he liked to eat for breakfast, all of it was off the record and yet Niels had willingly handed over his file to the agent when Guillard requested it. Either the Frenchmen didn't trust them or the Brits were testing them. ' _Tale as old as time I'll say,_ ' he snickered in silence. The rivalry between the two nations still persisted even when they were asked to cooperate and he couldn't help but find it the slightest bit amusing.

So engrossed in his work, he didn't notice Peter as he slunk into the room without making a sound--walking on the balls of his feet the way he did whenever he snuck out after his brother had fallen asleep. Stifling a laugh, he stood behind Arthur just far enough that he wouldn't see him then placed both hands on his hips while feigning a scowl as he pretended to ponder the photos on the board. When Arthur didn't notice Peter mocking him just a couple feet away, the kid sauntered up beside him--his foot then tapping when he stopped right next to his older brother. Laughing when he jumped out of his skin at the sound, Peter couldn't stop himself from snorting his laughter--his nose wrinkling up the same way Arthur's did when he smiled and his eyes aglow with mischief even as his brother smacked him upside the head.

"Bloody hell, you tryin' to kill me?" Arthur chided him. His scowl only lasted a moment longer until he rolled his eyes--clearly unimpressed with the boy's prank though it had managed to catch him off guard. "I told you not to come in here."

"Yeah, but you see I'm bored and we were supposed to hangout this weekend, remember?"

"I know Peter but I have to catch up on these cases before Monday."

"But--"

"Please Peter, I've got to get back to work."

"But you're always working!" Peter shouted, caught off guard by his own anger. This always happened. "You do this every time. Ever since mum... It's like you've become a robot."

"Peter, I--"

"Whatever," he brushed away the hand that reached out to comfort him. "I get it. You're too busy. I'll just go do something else."

"Wait," Arthur urged as he took hold of Peter's shoulder. Wilting inside when he saw the loneliness and mistrust in his brothers eyes, he offered an apologetic smile. "I was going to take a break soon anyways. What do ya' say we go down to Kennedy's and grab a bite?"

Sniffling to hide how low he'd been feeling moments before, Peter pursed his lips in a tight line and nodded. "I want the steak an' ale pie though."

"That's fine."

"And the cornish pasty too."

"Now you're just milkin' it," Arthur chuckled as he ruffled the kid's hair. "I'll go change and we'll head out, 'kay?"

Peter nodded; looking more chipper than he had all weekend. "'Kay."

\-------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, I'm not the world's most physical guy but when she squeezed me tight she nearly broke my spine. Oh my Lola!" Peter sang out proudly from their table in the pub as The Kinks hit played over the speakers. "Lo lo lo lo Lola!"

Arthur just laughed with his second pint of beer pressed to his lips--it lingering there as he smiled at his kid brother. The boy was a wild thing; much like he had been during his teen years. Able to make friends with anyone and talk about anything without a shred of shame, Peter was on his way to being exactly the kind of person he hoped he'd be. Joined in song by the lovely couple sitting behind them and the older gentlemen on the bar stools, the boy urged his older brother to sing with them. But unlike Peter, Arthur was still the same introvert forced extrovert he'd always been.

Whether it be his brother, free-spirited mother, or friends, Arthur had always been the one to stay composed. To watch from the sidelines as the rest of the world moved forward and had fun without him. It was only when he was drunk that he would break free from inhibition and relax. However, today was his day with Peter and do what Peter wanted. So he finished off the rest of his pint and began to sing along--much to his brother's glee.

It wasn't often that Arthur sang anymore but there were moments when Peter got to glimpse his brother's rock and roll past. Got to see the kind of kid he was before their mother got sick and his brother had to step in as both a father and mother. Smiling bright as Arthur sang along, Peter fell into a daydream-like memory of when he was still too young to speak without it coming out as gibberish. Returned to the nights when Arthur sang him to sleep because he wouldn't stop crying otherwise. Despite being a punk with his hair dyed platinum with reds tips and piercings in his ears, brows, and lips he was always home on time to tuck him in at night and sing him a lullaby. This was the Arthur Peter missed. The Arthur that had been his hero growing up--the man he believed could do anything. The man who was really a boy who never grew up and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Giggling a laugh as the bar patrons clapped in time with the song as Arthur sang, Peter howled a "woah!" as he played the air guitar in time with the cords. Joining his brother, he too sang along while swaying from side to side. It wasn't often that this kind of scene played out but they had been patron's of Kennedy's for the better half of seven years. In that time the owner's had seen the two grow up into the fine young men they were now. Something akin to grandsons, they were favorite's at the pub; more than just a pair of regulars that came to eat their usual meal and leave afterwards. Especially Arthur. Geoff Kennedy and his wife Edie had watched that boy go from a gangly thing with bushy brows and ears that were too big for his head to a handsome man with charm, wit, and a smile so bright it lit up the room.

"'Bout time he 'ad some fun," Edie chuckled knowingly from behind the bar to her husband as he dried the glass in his calloused hands.

"Ey, you know 'ow he is. Can't relax worth a damn when he's workin' hard," he replied. Sliding the glass into the holder above the bar as the song ended, Geoff clapped with the rest of the patrons as they cheered. "Encore!" he smiled.

Across the room feeling flushed from the two beers and the slight embarrassment he felt, Arthur ducked his head down and covered his face with both hands to hide the blush spreading over his fair skin like a tide. He wasn't drunk enough to forget the impromptu karaoke performance but buzzed enough not to care too much. Biting his bottom lip hard with teeth showing as he smiled at Peter who was calling for another song, his expression nearly fell when he spotted an unexpected face sitting at the corner table near the front entrance.

Clearing his throat awkwardly as he straightened out in his seat, Arthur nearly died as Francis left his table and walked over to their table. He had only spoken to the man once since their meeting on Friday. Had only a handful of minutes to form his opinion about the man and so far Agent 55 lived up to the gossip that had worked its way around the office. He was beautiful but in a frightening arresting way--the same way a cobra hypnotizes their prey before striking. With eyes the same shade of blue as the heaven's above and a smile so wicked it knotted his stomach into a bow, there was a dangerous air about him. An aura that warded off the faint of heart and attracted the unassuming like a siren's song. Honeyed blonde hair glowing beneath the lights like a halo crowning his head, he was all charm and guile as he stopped just a foot short of their table--his smile akin to that of a cat cornering its next meal. Then, just as quick as the craftiness in his gleam had appeared, the expression vanished; his gaze taking on the appearance of something softer.

"That was quite a show," Francis spoke; his accent seeping out like honey blanketing a patch of thorned roses. "I didn't know you were such a talented singer."

"And who are you?" Peter asked indignantly as he measured up the man making veiled comments about his brother.

"He's a colleague from work Peter," Arthur assured.

The boy narrowed his eyes with a sneer. "I've never met 'im. How long have you worked with Artie? What department are you in?"

Francis chuckled. "Aren't you tenacious."

"I don't know what that means but whatever. Just shove off."

"Peter!" Arthur snapped with wide frustrated eyes. Watching as the kid gave Francis one final glare before getting up to grab another soda at the bar and talk to Edie, he sighed as the stress set in. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking out the night life in the neighborhood. Can I sit?" Waiting until Arthur nodded his silent approval, Francis pulled out the spare chair and sat down to the man's right. "You seem stressed? Is it my fault?"

"What do you want?"

"Nothing really. Just friendly conversation. We haven't spoken much despite being partnered together."

"Says the man with no paper trail or file on him."

Francis snorted a laugh as he leaned back into the wooden chair. "None of the men and women in my branch have files on them. It's all part of the security we need in order to perform our jobs without worrying."

"Yeah, well even the agents at MI6 have some sort of record about them," Arthur said quietly before going silent as the waiter brought over the third pint he had ordered. "I don't see why your lot has to be any different."

"Because we just are. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

"Because you're a complete unknown."

"And you're job is to psychoanalyze people like me."

"No, I'm a handler."

"Same difference," Francis chirped; his sly smile sneaking into his tone. Watching Arthur's expression change rapidly between annoyance and skepticism, he sighed. "Ask me anything and I'll try my best to answer you honestly." Chuckling when the man lifted his head and shot him an indecipherable look of bewilderment, Francis leaned in with his elbows propped up onto the table. "There are some things you aren't allowed to know and I'll tell you if you hit on one of those. But everything else is fair game."

"No tricks?" Arthur asked, his throat going dry as his eyes wandered from Francis's steady cerulean gaze to his lips as they quirked into a smile.

The man was so obvious it would've made Francis laugh if he weren't trying to gain his trust. "No tricks."

Attention darting back up to meet the agent's eyes, he studied him for a moment. Tried to break past the barrier in his gaze and decipher the code in his words. The distinction between a field agent and a homeland officer couldn't have been more apparent than it was in that moment. Francis had spent years--a decade and some change--perfecting the facade he wore so proudly. He was indeed the perfect agent. Beautiful, intelligent, and cunning in both his actions and words. Arthur could see the dare in his eyes. Could feel the challenge rolling off of him despite the harmlessness of his words.

"What's your favorite color?" Arthur said with an air of nonchalance as he brought his pint up to his lips and took a sip.

Bursting into laughter, Francis couldn't have been more amused. "That's what you want to open with? You could ask anything and you want to know my favorite color?"

Arthur only arched a brow as he continued drinking.

Squaring his jaw though not without a smile, the agent licked the line of his teeth. "Yellow, like a sunrise or when it comes in through the trees during spring."

It was a surprisingly honest answer but told Arthur exactly what he wanted to know.

"And you?"

Arthur looked up. Caught off guard by the sincerity and curiosity of Francis's expression, he didn't know how to answer. Couldn't for the longest moment as the thoughts rushed through his head while his tongue tried to catch up so as not to leave the man hanging. What was his favorite color? The answer rocketed about in his cranium like a pin-ball that had been launched. Swallowing hard as he desperately grabbed at the threads linked to his train of thought, Arthur finally managed to wrangle himself in.

"Blue," was all he could manage while looking into Francis's dazzling eyes. There was a moment of true astonishment as he watched the agent's mask fall to reveal the discreetly charmed expression that laid hidden below. How could a solitary word flatter him like that?

"You and you're brother look alike," Francis said--effectively hiding the faint trace of peony pink that dusted his cheeks. "He seems to admire you quite a bit."

"I wouldn't say that," Arthur retorted casually. Turning his attention to Peter who was sitting at the bar smiling and laughing with Edie, he too smiled. "I admire him more than he admires me. He never knew our father and lost his mother when he was young but never fussed 'bout it or acted out the way I did when our old man passed. He's everything I could never be."

"You sound jealous."

"Do I?" Arthur asked. Meeting Francis's gaze, he smiled. "I was an old man at twenty-three. I suppose I am a tad jealous. But that's 'ow it is. No use in whining over something you can't change."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

"And what about you? Do you have any family?"

Hesitating for a moment, the apprehension was visible as Francis considered answering the question. "A younger half-brother and a mother."

"Do you see them often?"

"No," he replied almost immediately. Biting his lip, he fought against the pang of misery working its way through him. "I can't."

"Because of work."

"No."

Arthur could feel his words hitting the brick wall Francis had erected between them as that train of conversation was shut down. ' _That must be one of the sorer topics,_ ' he thought quietly as he made a mental note. Francis seemed to be fond of his mother and half-brother despite his unwillingness to talk anymore on the subject. If he wasn't he wouldn't have mentioned them. Would have lied the way most agents did when asked about their history or he would have said he had relatives and left it at that. But there was a spark in his eyes when he spoke of them. The same flicker Peter got in his eyes when he talked about their mother.

"Sorry," Arthur apologized; the awkward silence lingering a moment longer as he stared at the beer in his pint and Francis gazed coolly at him. "I didn't me--"

"I killed my father when I was eleven out of self-defense," Francis said as if it were the most normal of things to say to someone he barely knew in a bar at ten in the evening. "I got tired of listening to my mother cry every night as he beat her and raped her so I grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed him six times through the chest."

All the color left Arthur's face as the blood stilled in his veins. Chills raced along his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck and atop his forearms stood on end as he tried to figure out whether Francis's words were true or another lie like the one's he had told him during their only other conversation--they were in Arthur's office at the Thames House. Yet it was useless trying to piece together what was fact and what was fiction. Francis was a talented story-teller and could spin a tale in whichever direction he pleased.

"Is that true?" It was a stupid question but he didn't know what else to say.

Smiling though it looked misplaced on him now, Francis rolled his head to the side; the halo around his golden hair shifting as he did. "Who knows. But it's a nice story, is it not? Anyway, I need to go. Get home safe," he said as he rose. Leaning in close, he whispered into Arthur's ear, "Keep an eye on your brother. You never know who's watching."

It was with a smirk that he opened the door and vanished into the warm summer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour mes amis. Ca va bien? Moi, je suis tres bien! Merci! Hello hello my lovelies. So I've decided to start up something that I used to do for my AOT fics but fell out of the habit of doing and that is giving it a soundtrack. However, with a fic like this it's a little hard not to have a playlist or two or three...or five. Anyways, the point is that with each chapter--hopefully--I'll be compiling a playlist that fits the theme of that particular installment or played a part in the chapter i.e. is part of a certain scene or something like that.  
> So to kick things off in style, here is Francis' unpacking playlist that was playing at the start of this chapter. Because he's rather eccentric in this fic I wanted the music to match him so pardon me if things are little freaky and less Parisian. 
> 
> Je suis desolee mais pas vraiment. <3
> 
>  
> 
> ** _LA LISTE BIZARRE_ **
> 
> -"Timebomb" by Beck  
> -"Feel It Still" by Portugal. The Man  
> -"Apres Apres" by Francoise and the Atlas Mountains  
> -"On Savait (Devenir Grande" by La Grande Sophie  
> -"Sympathique" by Pink Martini  
> -"Somewhere Else" by Mesita  
> -"Friendship (Is A Small Boat In A Storm)" by Chicano Batman  
> -"A Hundred Dead And Loving Souls" by Chicano Batman  
> -"Run" by Chicano Batman  
> -"Redemption" by Zacari and Babes Wodumo  
> -"This Is America" by Childish Gambino  
> -"Terrified" by Childish Gambino  
> -"Redbone" by Childish Gambino  
> -"We Ain't Them" by Childish Gambino  
> -"Roller Girl" by Anna Karina  
> -"Contact" by Brigitte Bardot  
> -"Shove It (feat. Spank Rock)" by Santigold  
> -"You'll Find A Way" by Santigold  
> -"Creator" by Santigold  
> -"Genetic World" by Telepopmusik  
> -"Love Can Damage Your Health (feat. Angela McCluskey)" by Telepopmusik  
> -"Animal Man (feat. Juice Aleem)" by Telepopmusik  
> -"Wow" by Beck  
> -"Peach" by Hobo Johnson  
> -"Zone (feat. Nekfeu and Dizzee Rascal)" by Orelsan  
> -"La Lumiere" by Orelsan  
> -"La Fete Est Finie" by Orelsan  
> -"Aujourd'hui Ma Vie C'est D'la Marde" by Lisa LeBlanc  
> -"99 Luftballons" by Nena  
> -"I Want To Break Free" by Queen  
> -"Radio Ga Ga" by Queen


	3. Ghosts and Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis and Arthur familiarize themselves with the case and the Hound makes their move...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ** _TRIGGER WARNING!!_ : Themes of rape, child abduction, murder, and suicide appear in this chapter! Please read with caution when you get to the section marked "Dumfries-Galloway_scotland."

_"Francis,"_ called a voice so soft and sweet. _"Réveille-toi cherie."_ Then, a faint kiss to his cheek. _"Wake up!"_

Francis lunged forward in his bed, knuckles white as they clawed into the sheets and ragged breaths coming and leaving in heavy pants. Damp blonde hair clung to his forehead and neck and rivulets of cold sweat collected on his skin--a shiver running through him as a low rolling wind climbed through the open bedroom window and filled the space around him. Isis was quick to come to his aid from her spot on the couch in the living room. She had heard his fitful cries from across the house and rushed to his side; she nudging her hand at his wrist while gently purring.

Swallowing heard three times, he took in a deep measured breath then released it--repeating the pattern numerous times until the shaking had stopped and his heart had calmed. Francis wouldn't have normally called dreaming of affectionate whispers and caresses to his cheek a nightmare. However, the voice cooing in his ear had been one that he hadn't heard in many years. Blinking back tears as her voice echoed in his waking mind, Francis lifted an unsteady hand and placed it atop Isis's head. Her ears were so soft and velvety to the touch. It was the only sensation that tied him to the present as his mind made attempt after attempt to slip into the past.

"Bonjour ma mignonne," he smiled weakly as his fingers teased the cats ears before she lifted her head in silent command for him to scratch under her chin. Gently lifting the cat, Francis slumped back against the pillows, his smile growing as Isis nosed at his lips, cheeks, and eyes--her whiskers tickling him while her soft paws pressed into his collarbone. "Ah, my petite bebe," he chuckled before kissing his nose. Looking to the window as the sun began the creep along the horizon, he sighed. "On dirait que je ne dors pas aujourd'hui."

\--------------- _LONDON_england: Thames House_ \---------------

Arthur had been too focused on the case spread on the interactive screen before him to pay attention to what was going on on the other side of the frosted glass office wall. He had been too anxious--too rattled by the influx of new information he had been given that morning to even think of what everyone else was doing or if the director would be visiting or that his attire was looking a little sloppy after his fifth cup of coffee. Something. Something was missing. But what? What was he not seeing as he looked at the faces on the screens?

Body bags. Half identifiable carcasses riddled with bullet holes. Blurry pictures of hulking figures in hoodies and baseball caps dragging away frightened young men and women. He had all the pieces to bring this organization down but no one to take the fall. No known faces to start their trail and no indication as to why they had _just_ established themselves in London when it had been a major hub of activity for over a millennia. Nothing made sense while at the same time it did similarly to when one was unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer--you're well one moment and failing the next as your body is ravaged by the same disease your great mum passed from yet you neglected to test for.

Why? Why were they here now? What had caused the change in their behavior--in their patterns? From the information Arthur had collected this shift from Europe and eastern Russia to London didn't make sense. The Hound had been migrating eastward toward Indonesia, China, Thailand, and Vietnam. They had a slim market in South Korea, "sheepdogs" in North Korea, and ties to the blackmarket in Japan. They had completely bypassed North and South America and any British territories since their conception. So why now? What had brought upon this strange shift westward?

Eyes falling upon the last picture to be added to the board, Arthur felt his stomach churn. A young boy now older than Peter with hair the color of fire, bright cheerful brown eyes, and fair skin flecked with freckles lying face up in a ditch. Cold blood trailing from his pale lips that were parted into a permanent sigh after he had taken his last breath; the Hound's moniker branded to the side of his neck just below his ear the way ranchers branded cattle.

"Carian Llywelyn," Francis said, his voice reaching Arthur out from the silence as he gently closed the door behind him, sat down the two cups of coffee on the long table behind them, then turned to face the screen with Arthur. The look he wore was always more somber when they were discussing the children's cases. Something Arthur found rather strange considering the mans usual blase devil-may-care attitude. "I remember the day they found him," he noted, arms folding across his chest as he stared t the screen--his gaze cold and lamenting. "To the investigators, he was just a number; victim thirty-six. A boy who hadn't grown into his ears yet or had his first kiss. Victim thirty-six."

"The file says he died of blunt force trauma to the back of his head."

Francis nodded quietly. "Forensics says he fought his captors. They likely decided he couldn't be broken like the others and killed him and disposed of him in the forest. It was a mercy when you consider the other options."

It was curious how everything else--quite literally anything under the sun--except for this did not faze Francis. He had witnessed men being torn to pieces while on mission in the Polynesian Islands. Had watched the life flee the eyes of his victims after they had drank the cyanide he had slipped into their drink. He had smothered the same men he had slept with for information once the job had run its course and the person was no longer of use to the DGSE. He had been tempered and trained, forged into a stoic agent that could kill without hesitation. Yet it did not escape Arthur how Francis would go stiff when a child was involved in a case. His jaw would square itself slightly, he'd take a deeper breath, and he'd cross his arms--the right hand squeezing more tightly on his left bicep than the left hand did on the right.

"All accounts of their previous movements points toward an expansion into the Asia and the South Pacific," Arthur commented. He needed to stop focusing on the boy. Needed to stop thinking of Peter dead in Carian's place and focus on the job at hand. "Why would they change directions so abruptly when they had already laid the foundation for expansion?"

"That is the question."

His voice was barely above a murmur. Francis, like Arthur, was far too engrossed in the frozen gaze of Carian Llywelyn. The way the muddled sunlight that was shining through on that cloudy day in May caught in his eyes. The paleness of his cheeks. The look of peaceful acceptance he wore as if he knew, in his last moments, that that was the end. The coroner said he had put up a fight. The cuts on his knuckles and the missing fingernails were proof of it. Tragic, was it, that a boy with so much life left in him would be found buried under the leaves in a stretch of forest along the road.

"Wait..." Arthur muttered as he leaned forward then pushed away from the table's edge. Approaching the screen, he stared at the collar of the boy's flannel for a long moment. Double tapping the portion of the monitor, he waited patiently as the image enlarged and depixelated.

"What is it?"

Mouth barely agape, Arthur reached behind him to grab the hardcopy of the boys case file. Flipping through the pages--section after section--it fell open to the stapled packet detailing who had been on duty that day, who the investigators were, and which coroners had handled the body complete with their attached pictures. Looking back and forth from the screen, he flipped through the pictures as if they were about to speak.

"There," Arthur point to a strand of hair so faint and thin it could hardly be made out on screen. "That. It's far too long to belong to any of the investigators and the color is black. Neither the victim nor the people on site had black hair; they were all brunettes or blondes and that hair is clearly black."

"It could just be a trick of the light," Francis countered as his eyes squinted while he examined the hair in question.

"No. Look at the way it contrasts against his skin. It's jet black and no one--whether they were part of forensics or an investigator--had hair that dark." Gaze fixed on the screen, Arthur was silent for a minute as it all sunk in. "We need to call the blokes downstairs."

\---x---x---x---x---x---

The beautifully haunting rhythm of smooth jazz fusion could be heard all the way down the corridor as Arthur and Francis exited the lift. Sub-level two or "the catacombs" or "the graveyard" as they were endearingly referred to by was the first of four vault floors where evidence from each and every case, defective weaponry, or defunk computers were stored. False windows with simulated sunlight, moonlight, and seasonal changes had been added in years ago because the numerous officers charged with tending to the graveyard were starting to show signs of mental disturbance. Cold, quiet, desolate... It wasn't anywhere anyone would like to be. The lights flickered whenever the underground rattled with the arrival of the trains and regular water leaks in the winter contributed to its general unpleasantness. 

It took a hearty sort of individual to endure such a place. William "Bill" Christopherson had been the last curator of the vaults but had retired several years ago after his tuberculosis had relapsed. He died two years later. Since then it had been steady stream of different nondescript faces coming and going--some staying longer than others though none making it past their first year. The agents and officers joked in conversation around the water cooler that old Bill haunted the place. Whether he did or not no one could say. Some claimed they had seen the flickering spector of their friend at the end of the hall by vault six; his eyes white and face gaunt like it had been at his wake when everyone came to pay their respects to the body. Arthur paid them no mind though. Whether the paranormal existed or not was no business of his when he had so much more to worry about in the world of the living.

"I heard from one of your colleagues that you have a ghost problem down here," Francis commented as they walked toward the only office on the floor.

"Better ghosts than rats," Arthur answered back without much thought. Approaching the near end of the hall--just a few doors down from vault six--they stopped in front of the booth connected to the admin's office. Protected by a three inch thick pane of bullet proof glass with CCTV feeds watching their every move, it was one of the most secure places in all of London as was its operator. "Afternoon Scottie," he said to the redhead casually reading the latest edition of GQ magazine with Idris Elba on the cover.

Glancing up from the article he'd been engrossed in, the man sighed with one brow arched in silent annoyance. "Good afternoon Kirkland. What do you want?"

"I need access to the evidence from a particular case. A shirt actually if it's in our possession."

Teeth chewing the tip of the tooth pick that rested between his lips, the man was quiet for a moment as he looked between Arthur and the stranger beside him. "What's the case number?" he asked though his eyes never left the strangers face. The blonde wasn't any officer at MI5 nor was he from MI6. "Who's this?"

Without speaking Francis removed his agents badge from his inner breast pocket and slipped it to Scottie.

"DGSE?" he said aloud though it was more to himself than the others. Brows furrowing, he slid it back to the tall blonde. "What's a French agent doing on English soil and in my archives no less?"

"That's above your pay grade," Francis snipped. Who was this man to argue with a field operative and a case officer?

"I'll bet it is," Scottie lulled with challenge in his piercing emerald gaze. "Case number?" he demanded again.

Arthur hand him the scrap of paper with the number written on it. Waiting as he typed it into the system for retrieval, the level of unease in both he and Francis rose the longer the silence dragged on; it only punctuated by the sharp striking of fingertips against computer keys.

"The Llywelyn boy?" It were as if they had stepped on a landmine from the way Scottie's expression changed from questioning to alarmed. But just as suddenly as the shock had taken hold of him it was swiftly smothered out. Again, his gaze lifted to the two men as if he were seeking an explanation he knew would never come. "I don't know what rabbit hole ya' lot are jumpin' inta but," he paused as he printed out the location of the evidence box then attached the key to the paper with a stapler, "be careful. This case ain't no or'nary abduction-murder."

He knew. He must have if his abrupt display of fear and words of caution were anything to measure by. Allistor Scott was impossible to spook. It was part of why he had lasted so long in the graveyard. We was also quite meticulous and didn't miss a single detail--had memorized nearly every case file on the second sub-level since had had started with MI5 ten years ago. But more so than ghosts, he--like Arthur--found the crimes of humanity to be far more frightening than any spector.

"Come on," Francis said as he took a few steps toward vault three; slowing when he saw Arthur hadn't moved. "Arthur," he called again; this time the officer looked up. "Let's go."

"Right," Arthur answered with a rasp as he cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm right behind you.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

\--------------- _DUMFRIES-GALLOWAY_scotland_ \---------------

Wrists raw and bloody from the twisting and pulling it took to free herself from the cuffs that had her shackled to the bed, the young woman stood with her back pressed to the hallway wall as she waited for the security camera to turn away. Lungs on fire with every breath raking through her like shards of glass, she trembled uncontrollably--her thighs bruised, skin damp, and neck screaming of agitation as the brand that had been burned into her blistered.

Breath stilling when she heard the whirring of the camera turning on its head to point down the other hall, she forced her legs to move. Willed herself to silently sprint down the hall before she could be caught. It wasn't like she had much weight on herself anymore. The men that had taken her tried to fatten her up. Had force-fed her heavy meals of meat and potatoes and stew so that her curves would fill back in and make her more desirable to sell off. She knew that was what they had planned for her--had overheard them talking as she feigned sleep, pretending to pass out from the pain of the branding. But she had heard them. Knew that the other girls and boys in the house were heading toward the same fate.

They'd all become someone's plaything. A toy used for sexual gratification and pumped full of drugs to keep they numb to the world; aloof and dependent on their captors. But she had resisted so far. Had fought back and starved herself to make herself less appealing than the others. Death or escape. Those were the only options. She'd rather escape than die but would rather die than be raped repeatedly by wealthy men who got off on fondling girls.

Gliding down the back stairwell by the abandoned servants quarters of the dilapidated manor, she stopped once more--waiting now for the second camera to change its direction. When it did she ducked down to blend into the shadows as she crept through the large galley kitchen, pausing to grab a kitchen knife in case the worse came to pass. She had never fought anyone before. Had grown up the way every kid in the suburbs had with a mum and dad that paid some to little attention to the problems happening around them and siblings and friends that were just as disenchanted as the adults. She had never punched a bloke in the face or knew anyone that had needed to either. That sort of thing just didn't happen in her neighborhood. It was too quiet and bland for such behavior.

Clutching the handle of the utility knife she had taken from the wooden knife block, she lowered herself to the floor, legs and arms spread like a spider as she crawled toward the back door. From there she would have to evade the floodlights and the trip wire that surrounded the property. After that was a two day journey through the forest. Her kidnappers hadn't done a thorough job knocking her out when they had grabbed her. In the time it took for them to travel from London where she was on vacation with her family to the manor she had woken up enough to catch sight of the few landmarks that popped up along the way as well as a sign that welcomed visitors to Dumfries and Galloway Park. They had been there before--she and her family. They had camped in the park three years ago and had planned on returning next year for another trip. Ironic was it that now she never wanted to see the place again.

Starvation wasn't just a part of her plan to make herself less feminine and shapely as the others. There was a dog door fixed into the wood of the kitchen door. After weeks of depriving herself of most anything they gave her she was now small enough to squeeze through it. Even her hips which she had once been proud of and swayed whenever she competed with her cheer team back home were now slim and narrow much like her shoulders which had lost their definition too. Weak smile painting her face as she reached the dog door, it quickly crumbled when she saw the screws holding the thick plastic flap in place. They knew someone would try getting out. Knew eventually one of their victims would see it after they were dragged outside to be branded.

Tears stinging her eyes, the girl held back her screams of agony and utter desperation. Biting down on her lip hard enough that it split the skin, she focused of the nauseating metallic taste of her own blood to distract her from the obstacle before her. Glancing over her shoulder at the sound of distant footsteps on the second floor, she knew she had to hurry. Soon, one of the night guards would notice she was missing and would alert the others.

Knife in hand she began to cut the flap loose. The screws were in too tight to undo them. They must have used a power drill to get them that tight. The only option was to cut and so she did, working the blade through the thick tough plastic with difficulty. Her arms ached and the wounds to her wrists cried out in protest but she could handle it. She would take the momentary suffering if it meant escaping the nightmare she had been plunged into.

On the third screw the alarm was sounded. They had found her room empty and now everyone was scrambling about to find the missing girl much like a farmer would go looking for any stray cattle before slaughter day. Fear flooding her veins, she worked through the tears as she cut free from the final screw. Grunting and growling as she pushed through the narrow hole--the jagged plastic raking across her skin like nails digging into flesh, she tumbled out the other side; looking up at the full moon with a smile and dirt caking the left side of her face.

Rising to her feet she ran across the gravel courtyard the separated the house from the wood--a panicked cry escaping her when the floodlights turned on and men began shouting behind her. Bare feet struggling to find stable purchase with every step, she raced toward the wood as three men chased her; them all in black with ski masks on to cover their faces. They carried guns on them. Assault rifles from the looks but none shot at her. They likely didn't want to damage any "goods" that were still sellable.

Her escape was short lived though when a team of two circled around and stopped just a yard from her. Trembling down to her bones as she pivoted to see the three others closing her in the way sheepdogs corralled a flock, she knew it was over. They were going to take her back inside, tie her down even tighter to the beds, force feed her until she regained her health, and them sell her to the highest bidder. Girls with blonde hair and green eyes always went for more. That's what the men outside her door had said while they patrolled the halls when they thought everyone was sleeping. "White gold" they called it. A favorite in the South Eastern markets.

"No!" one of the men shouted as she lifted the blade to her wrist and cut long and deep into her arm before plunging the knife into her own throat.

It was the only way she could escape. The only way to be free because no one could find them there. No one would save them. Death was the only way. Falling to the ground as the men in black raced to her, she stared at the moon wondering what would have happened if she hadn't have gone out to grab coffee that morning. She was going to surprise her parents with their favorites. Had even planned to buy them pastries too. If only she had just stayed in the hotel. If only she had waited.

"Sorry mom," she choked and then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a little shorter than the others. It was hard for me to write the last portion and just as difficult to follow it up immediately with anything without ruining the flow of the story. But the next installment with be longer and hopefully less dark. We'll just have to wait and see.


	4. Don't Look Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis find their first lead and the case begins to take it's toll on Arthur.

\--------------- _LONDON_england_ \---------------

The pain in his lower back was far more intense than Francis thought it'd be that morning as he groaned to life at the blaring of his alarm. Shoulders stiff, neck kinked, and skin tingling with the sting of dozens of bites and hickies left behind on his fair flesh, his displeasure manifested not from the wreck he'd been made into but when he felt the leftovers of his bedmates pleasure stuck to his inner thighs and backside. The bastard had finished and passed out soon after. Typical behavior but still rude considering he had bragged to Francis at the bar about "what good care" he shows for his partners.

Showering quickly to rid himself of the sweat, semen, and stink of cologne he'd accrued from Mr. Red who was still asleep, Francis was reborn beneath the hot water pouring down upon him. At least the the man hadn't tried to bind his wrists like the other wank last week. ' _I wonder if his nose has healed up yet?_ ' he pondered silently. Enduring thirty-seconds of cold water for his immune systems health, he turned the showerhead off and stepped into the steamy space outside of the enclosure with hair slicked back and skin glowing. 

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Francis quietly padded over to the balcony doors--grabbing his pack of cigarettes and lighter along the way. Not blinking as Mr. Red stirred from his slumber, Francis ignored the ruckus as he escaped into the peaceful solitude outside where he was surrounded by potted perennials, flower box planted red geraniums lining the sitting space and the flowering tree branches that shaded him from the midmorning summer sun. He took a deep breath and released it with a smile. Despite London's dreariness and during winter, spring, and fall, it was beautiful and temperate in the summer. Not too hot yet not too cold with only small showers scattered here and there. Back home in Paris it was already blistering hot with high humidity which did wonders for the skin but destroyed one's stamina.

"Mornin' love," Mr. Red cooed in his slurred Sussex tone as he smoothed his palms down Francis's waist before wrapping around his hips with a possessive grope. "I hope you aren't too sore from last night. I got a little wrapped up in ya' and lost my head."

Not impressed by his words in the least, Francis exhaled a puff of smoke with his disinterested gaze fixed on his neighbors window. "You came inside me when I told you not to."

"Sorry love. Let me make it up to ya'?"

"Mmmm," he hummed as he pretended to ponder. "No. If you can't listen the first time then you won't listen the second. Anyways, I have a busy day ahead of me so grab your things and leave."

Mr. Red seethed with anger flaring. "You cheap little--"

Faster than the words could be uttered, Francis spun around and drove his elbow into Mr. Red's stomach. This always happened with the wealthy bastards that felt the world owed them a good fuck and complacent bedmate. They'd ram their dick into anything, ignore their partners wishes, then take their frustrations out on the man or woman if they called them out on their shortcomings. But Francis had the upper hand. He always did which was why he liked playing with those sort of egomaniacs because it brought him more joy watching them crumble than it did when he eventually got off.

Standing tall as he took another drag from his cigarette, he crouched down, combed his fingers through Mr. Red's hair, then grabbed a fistful of the auburn curls and yanked his head back with force. Excitement stirring when he saw the dichotomous expression of fear and fury, Francis blew the smoke in his face with a devilish slant to his grin.

"I told you to leave and your reaction was to attack me?" he asked; fist twisting the man's hair tighter as if he meant to rip it out by the roots. "Playtime is over and I have no use for you or your cock. Leave or I'll send you off with one less limb."

Releasing Mr. Red from his grasp, Francis watched with veiled humor as the man scrambled to his feet. Gaze following as he hurriedly grabbed his clothes and other belongings, he couldn't help the chuckle as he heard him tumble through the townhome--likely falling over himself as he dressed; cursing Francis when he fell down the stairs due to his own carelessness. Leaning against the rail of the weathered balcony Francis waved his goodbye while Mr. Red yelled "whore" in retort.

"So childish," Francis snorted a laugh; his expression softening when Isis hopped up onto the balcony railing, purring her pleasure when he scratched behind her small velveteen ears.

"Does that happen often?" called a voice from across the shallow brick wall that divided his property from the neighbors.

Looking to the balcony adjacent to his, Francis smiled with his chin resting in his hand when he saw the mildly humored expression on Arthur's face. "Sometimes. People don't understand what 'no' means anymore. I've had worse though."

"And if he comes back?"

Taking a drag from his cigarette, he exhaled the smoke with a smirk. "I'll have to make good on my threat." Watching Arthur's face carefully as the man took log of the numerous bites and dark pink hickies that had been worried into his skin, Francis breathed a gentle laugh. "I hope your morning has been less eventful than mine."

"It was."

"Where's your brother? He usually wakes you up with his yelling."

"His classes started back up today. He left for the dorms yesterday night after dinner."

"Ah, I see."

Silence hung between them with Francis observing his partner across the way while Arthur secretly crumbled beneath the weight of his ultramarine blue eyes. He wanted to ask why Francis continued inviting creeps like that bloke into his home. Wanted him to stop moreover because there'd come a day when the agent wouldn't have the upper hand. It didn't make sense to Arthur. What did he get from sleeping with men like that who would try to attack him when provoked with only words? It was none of his business though. That's what he told himself. That's what he had to tell himself in order to keep things strictly business between them. Anymore than this and it'd be an intrusion too far into his personal life.

"You're staring," Francis smirked.

"You're half naked. Anyone would stare."

"Mmm..."

"You should go inside and put something on."

"I should."

But he didn't. Didn't move in the slightest but rather he stood there with arms casually perched atop the balcony rail while the smoke from his cigarette wafted upwards and away beneath the summer sun. He was doing this on purpose. Arthur knew he was. Francis was shameless with his flirting and never hid his wiles. Seemed to be proud of how easily he could turn the strongest hearts into stammering messes. Perhaps that was why he was so good at his job. It was undoubtedly one of the reasons why he'd been selected for the Hound case. No one else had the charm or viciousness required for the task. No one but him, the man with eyes of ocean blue.

"You're phone is going off," Francis commented casually with a chin jerk toward his pant pocket.

Unable to look away from his haunting gaze, Arthur reached for his cell. Glancing curiously at the screen a second time when he saw the ID, he answered. "Kirkland here."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

\--------------- _RAMSEY_isle of man_ \---------------

The summer heat hadn't reached the seafaring town of Ramsey. Blanketed in a fresh layer of wet from the early evening rain; the puddles and damp cobblestones glistening under the lamps rudy glow as they came to life while the sun slowly dipped below the horizon. Residents packed the handful of pubs and eateries while others caucused outside the local haunts--chain smoking and arguing politics to one another. It wasn't long ago that these streets had been flooded by the torrent of rain that plagued the port town several years back. The shops had all been flooded, walls caving in and mold creeping along the ceilings as the waters receded.

They had just arrived from the airport--one of the few threads that connected the spit of land to the rest of the world. Arthur had visited the town while on holiday once. Vaguely remembered why his mother had selected the location but was adamant that he tell no one of where they were going. He was six then. It had been nearly two decades since and nothing had changed. The buildings still looked as if they were frozen in time--stuck in their glory years from the 1970's. The holes in the roads had been filled in for the most part and the land was still sparce with little to nothing of interest to watch during the car ride from the airstrip to the seaport. 

Everything was as it had been all those years ago yet somehow it all felt heavier now. Like a blue gray dim had been pulled over the quiet and quaint town. It felt so foreign. So alien as if it were his first time laying eyes upon the place. Arthur could feel the suspicion. Could see the distrust in the quiet gaze of fishermen as he passed by the pub where they all congregated. Could hear the whispers carried on the breeze of women asking their friends "who are they?" while others replied with sheep minded disdain "they aren't from here." Everyone knew why he and Francis were there. Gossip was the only past-time in small towns like this. Gossip, sex, drugs, and suicide when boredom turned to madness.

Turning the corner at the toy shop--the stunned frozen eyes of the porcelain dolls gazing out through the windows at passerby's--Francis and Arthur arrived at Peel, the islands main fishing port. Chilled as the ocean breeze cut through him, Arthur flipped up the collar of his coat and jammed his hands into his pockets. Yards away was a buzz of police with borders of yellow tape erected in a thirty meter perimeter. Lights flashed from the tops of squad cars while townspeople hung around the fringes watching in silence with indecipherable eyes from the wooden docks and street guardrails. Interpol agents were already there. Not just the French and British divisions but the Americans as well. Why, Arthur wasn't sure. But he'd likely find out as one familiar face turned and caught sight of him from the crime scene.

"Never thought I'd see you here," Alfred smiled weakly at his cousin as he approached. "Guess you finally applied for a field position."

"Hardly," Arthur replied though his attention was elsewhere; his gaze extending to the ring of police and forensic officers surrounding what had to have been the reason he and Francis were called to the island. "I was given the case without room for argument."

"Hmm..." Glancing over his shoulder then to Arthur, Alfred's attention fell on the blonde standing quietly next to his cousin. "You must be Agent 55."

"I am."

"Agent Nine," Alfred said, extending his hand to Francis. They shook for a brief moment; the moment lingering longer when Alfred gave the Frenchman's hand a firm squeeze. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"Likewise. So," Francis asked as he retracted his hand, burying it back into the warmth of his wool pockets, "you said you had a body for us to look at?"

Arthur could see the color leave his cousin's face. He'd never been good with cases such as these. Was too attached to his heart and all the trouble it caused yet still insisted to go through the training and trouble of becoming a field officer back home in the States. Similar to Francis, he could handle almost everything else. Had played executioner numerous times as well as savior to those being trafficked. He'd seen monsters behind warlines and had survived being taken as a prisoner of war twice. But he was weak when people with names and faces were involved--ordinary people innocent of the monstrosities committed by the world at large. That heart would be what ruins him someday. Arthur knew it. It was always their heart that broke field agents.

Following his reluctant cousin, Arthur ducked below the yellow tape while Francis stepped over it. Parting just enough to give them room, the island police and coroners took a step back so that the men could get a look at the scene. Taking the sterile rubber gloves and shoe covers that had been offered to him, Arthur slipped them both one before approaching the body. Recoiling at the smell and the sight as the tarp was lifted, he couldn't stop the sickening meld of disgust and despair he felt.

"We haven't ID'd her yet but she was likely in her teens to early twenties. There's grooves around her wrists and ankles, likely from being bound with some sort of rope."

Lifting the young woman's cold emaciated wrist, Arthur saw the tell-tale markings that came from being restrained. Bruised and scabbed over but still visible, the rope burns were a clear indicator that she'd been taken against her will and confined somewhere. Eyes flickering to her throat, he felt the pill of nausea grow at the jagged wound to her neck. Watching as Francis knelt down opposite of him, he waited for his partner to speak. Waited as his delving blue gaze surveyed the deceased--capturing every detail that may have or had been overlooked. Yet the longer he waited the heavier the quiet between them came.

"Fr--" Arthur caught himself. "Fifty-five?"

Francis looked up for a moment. "She must have killed herself."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. It's just a feeling. She was kidnapped, bound, and confined. I'm sure she starved herself too if her captors were human traffickers. If you put yourself in her shoes you'd either try to escape or die trying. I know I would."

Jaw locked and teeth gritting as the words settled in him, Arthur looked down at the young woman. Francis was right. Anyone would try to escape. And if they couldn't escape, they'd likely die trying rather than live through whatever horrors awaited them. Approximately twenty percent of human trafficking cases resulted in corpses with missing organs, skin, or limbs. Other times they were found. However, most victims were sold on the black market as sex workers and never seen again.

"Fifty-five..." Arthur spoke in a low tone as his brows knitted together. Gently rolling the deceased's head to the side, Arthur's mouth cracked open with awe. "Look at this."

Leaning over, Francis breathed a short pitiful laugh. "What do you know, they didn't cut it off."

"What?" Alfred pried as he craned over Arthurs shoulder.

"The brand insignia."

Eyes wide, Alfred squeezed himself in next to Arthur; the wet sand staining the knees of his fresh slacks. "Excellent."

"We still don't know her name," Arthur pointed out.

"No, but this could prove to be just as valuable."

\---x---x---x---x---x---x---x---x---x---

She killed herself. There was no question to it as Arthur reviewed the pictures in front him as he swiped through folder on his tablet that the coroners office had sent over from the lab. The toxicology report hadn't come through yet but it had only been four hours so they likely wouldn't hear back from them for a day or so. The police still had yet to identify her as well. For now she was another number--victim number forty-two. Of the bodies found throughout Europe that were known to have been tied to the Hound, she was victim forty-two.

Eyes once a bright gleaming emerald green and hair like sunshine, she had been in good health until her capture. Perfect white teeth, manicured nails, no split ends in her elbow length tresses, and unblemished skin except for the trauma her kidnappers had dealt to it. She must have been a fighter. She was missing two nails on her left hand and had a jagged faintly red welt on her stomach from some unknown object. The coroners placed between sixteen and twenty; no older but no younger.

She was a child. A dove cut down before it could sing its song. So young and beautiful now a husk of what she had once been. Her last moments alive must have been terrifying. Had she killed herself it was undoubtedly because she'd been back into a corner. It hurt the longer Arthur dwelled--the longer he gazed into her tired dead eyes that had been glossed over with perpetual sleep. What monsters were chasing her that her only reprieve was to take a knife to the throat and wrist? What horrors had she seen? What had she lived through in the short amount of time that she'd been held captive? He likely didn't want to know but to know would mean justice for her, victim forty-two.

Door creaking as the bathroom door opened--a tide of warmth rushing in as the heat and steam from the shower flooded the space--Francis entered the small quiet room in his sleeping shirt and pants while towel drying his hair. He had decided to give Arthur some space when they had made it back to the inn. Unlike him, Arthur had yet to see these sorts of atrocities in person. He'd never been to a crime scene. Had never handled the body of a human; their soulless eyes staring into the void as their mouths hung agape. He'd never smelt the rot of a decaying corpse or seen the pallor of their shriveled flesh after the birds and bugs had had their say. 

This work was foreign to Arthur; just as alien as the Gaelic tongue all the elderly locals spoke in whenever they passed by. He may have trained for a field position. Maybe he had once had dreams of becoming the next Bond only to realize that 007 was pure fantasy and reality was much crueler. Regardless, Arthur was still human and felt this much deeper than Francis did. He'd become immune to the anguish and the loathing one would usually harbor toward humanity in such situations. He wasn't soft anymore. All his boyish charms and sweetness gone decades before. Yet even so, he wasn't beyond understanding and empathizing with Arthur.

"You should stop looking at the and go to bed," Francis said quietly as he ruffled his hair with the towel.

"I'm fine. You can turn in, I'm not tired yet."

"You have bags under your eyes. You're not fooling anyone."

"Just let me be."

"Arthur..."

"Just stop it right?!" Arthur snapped, yanking his arm away from Francis. "I said I've got it, 'kay? Just leave me be."

Clicking his tongue, Francis sighed with an expression that teased at frustration. "If that's how you want to do things then..."

Without finishing his sentence, Francis grabbed a fistful of Arthur's flaxen hair--ignoring his yelps and cries of pain. Pulling him to his feet, he led the man to the king size bed they were to share and threw him down against it. He was too tired and wrung out for this bratty behavior. They had an early day in the morning and had to fly back to London to report to Niles by the evening. After that they'd likely be swimming in paperwork and new additions to the case file. So as much as Arthur would like to have things his way that evening, Francis refused to humor him. They were going to do things his way. 

"Let go!" Arthur riled beneath Francis as he pinned his wrists with one hand to the pillows. "Why are you being like this? S-Stop!" he growled.

"Why am I being like this? Why are you? You think you can solve the case overnight? That you can spend hours staring at the same pictures over and over and catch something while in a state of delirium that you didn't catch before?! Get real Arthur! You're no use to anyone when you're exhausted and manic. I know you haven't been sleeping. The bags under your eyes and the shaking in your hands tells me its been days since you last rested." Brows furrowed as he smiled his disbelief as Arthur continued to resist, Francis leaned down and murmured, "You really think you're the only talented psychoanalyst here?"

"Fuck you."

"Shut up and sleep."

"And how do you expect me to do that with you on top of me?"

"I don't know, figure it out. Maybe I'll get off if you calm down and listen."

Glaring at the agent a moment longer, Arthur gave a heavy sigh through his nose like a bull staring down a toreador.He hated this about the Frenchman. It wasn't so much that he was stubborn but more like he was unmoving when he took a stance on something. Once he set his mind to a task or idea, he didn't flinch and he never wavered. It were as he were an immovable object and Arthur were the unstoppable force. They cancelled at all points--both winning and losing simultaneously. Neither stronger or weaker than the other. It was frustrating. Vexing at the absolute least and infuriating when Francis didn't relent. They'd only been partnered for a month and a half and he already couldn't stand him--most of the time. But for now Arthur had to concede. There was no other option with Francis's challenging gaze pouring into him with every intent of of winning this argument.

"Fine," he growled under his breath. "Get off me."

Straddling him a moment longer, Francis watched him closely. Tracked his expression and the changing moods behind his peridotite eyes as they flickered in and out of view. Despite how non-confrontational Arthur may be he had more fight in him than Francis knew what to do with. He was a handful at best and a pain in his ass and a danger to himself at worse. Exhaustion was a rookie mistake Francis had hoped Arthur had evaded but the man was obstinate in his ways.

Head tilting to the side--the golden glow from the light highlighting his sharp features in the gloom, Francis drew closer. Noses brushing and breath mingling as he looked into those pools of furious green, he saw a calm spread over his partner. Watched as it washed through him and cleaned his busy mind.

"Sleep well," Francis murmured quietly into the intimate space between them before his hands released and he slid off of Arthur. 

Padding across the room, he turned off the lights as Arthur slipped under the blankets and deposited his glasses on the nightstand next to the bed. Slipping in on his side, Francis relaxed as his aching bones and tired joints eased into the mildly plush mattress. It had begun to rain again. Fat droplets smacked the window and streaked across the glass while the wind whistled and the lonely straggler made their way home from the pubs. 

"You were right," Arthur spoke into the darkness; his voice hardly a breath above a whisper. "She killed herself. She must 'ave."

Swallowing back the pit forming in his throat, Francis closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. "Go to sleep Arthur."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

............... _later that week_...............

It'd been days and Arthur still wasn't right. Francis had been watching--analyzing to see how quickly he'd recover from seeing his first corpse in the field. Things weren't going well to put it lightly. That was not to say that Arthur was letting it affect his work. Quite the contrary. He had actually been more productive in the six days since they'd found victim forty-two; working tirelessly trying to match her to any missing persons files that had run cold or were still going hot. An admirable feat considering there were thousands of global cases and over a third of them matched the few constraints they'd set to the search.

Perhaps it was because any one of the victims could lead to the traffickers. That would have been Francis's motivation but it was too on the nose work-wise for Arthur. For him there was something else to the madness as he paced his room until the wee hours of the morning when the birds rose to sing their first songs of the day and the suits were going off to work. There was something else that had him staring at his case board mounted in his study--his hands in his flaxen hair as his tired emerald eyes scanned each picture for something he may have overlooked. Something had taken hold of him that night as the knelt over Forty-Two's emaciated body with all manner of rope burns, cuts, and decay marring her once unblemished skin.

Was it fear? Not for himself, it wasn't. Observing his partner from across the bar as he worked on his second pint of India Pale Ale, Francis tried to decipher what was going through Arthur's head. Found that he'd never been so desperate to understand someone in all his life and it frustrated him to his wits end. Work was going well and things were progressing smoothly for the little evidence they had. But for all the highlights he was stuck stewing on the lows. ' _What's going on in there?_ ' he pondered in silence; his eyes following Arthur's left hand as it rose and threw the dart it held with precision--almost nailing the bullseye in the center of the board.

"He's pretty good, huh?" Alfred said with an ironic smirk. Maybe there was a rivalry there. That's all could Francis deduce from his expression. "Most people don't peg him for a sharp shooter but he has better accuracy than most armed field officers."

Taking a sip from his glass, Francis arched a low brow. "That wasn't in his file."

"Well I doubt it would be. He was trained but never took the promotion they offered him. Twice!" Leering forward with exasperation written across his face as if the statement physically hurt him, Alfred snickered. "The guy gave up his dream job for desk work. I mean I get why he did it but honestly, he's wasted on his department."

"Was it because of his brother?"

"Mmm, probably. The guy became a parent too soon and to his own brother no less. But still, he was such a punk when we were kids and have every intention of living that kind of life and then bam! He goes Mr. Mom on me."

"You're blabbering again," Arthur said as he appeared unexpectedly. They'd only taken their eyes off of him for a moment and yet it was just long enough for him to get the jump on them. "What nonsense is he tellin' ya' now?" he questioned his partner--ignoring Alfred's protest as he took his half empty pint of Guinness and knocked it back as if he were drinking water.

Gaze trailing up from the man's collarbone peeking out from under his vintage Rolling Stones tee, over his slim pale neck, to his defined jawline, Francis sat in silence for a moment as the briefest of thoughts passed through his waking mind. "Apparently you were a delinquent."

"Ha!" Arthur snorted a laugh. "Like that's hardly a secret."

Francis just hummed with a raised chin and slanted gaze. He didn't know much about Arthur's relationship with Nine. Just that they were family of sorts. Any other information was classified. But from what the young American agent had carelessly divulged, they were related and were close enough that they knew one anothers history as well as their previous lifestyles.

"I was a rubbish kid during my teens and early twenties but most children are little bastards so I'm no different from the rest." Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rolled his head to the side with an almost melancholy look. "We all gotta grow up sometime. Some of us just do it sooner than others. Anway, I'm gonna take a piss. Try not to run yer gob to much, 'ey?"

Walking away as "Down by the Seaside" by Led Zeppelin came on, Francis fought to keep his laughter in check. For all he had been enduring that week--both at work and in the confines of his own mind--Arthur was still Arthur. He really was a punk at heart. Snappy and stubborn with a shit personality when he was in one of his many moods yet soft and considerate of others at the core of it all. A walking contradiction if Francis knew of any. It was so like him to scold someone all while wearing a broken in rock tee with a flannel around his hips as if he were still in some punk band. So like him to carry that scowl with elegance all while swearing like some sailor fresh off the boat and looking for some call girl. To Francis, there was no one more British than his partner--a contrast of the old, the new, and wild present seeped out of the city at its seems.

"I'm going to check on him," Francis said after another minute or two. Arthur had been drinking like a fish that night and his absence brewed a strange sensation of worry within Francis the longer he was gone. They'd gone out drinking that night so that Arthur could forget about the case for a few hours but things weren't exactly heading in the direction he'd wanted.

"If he tries to fight you just duck to your right and get him 'round the back," Alfred instructed as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he took a brief glance then frowned. "Looks like I gotta head out. Arthur's a southpaw though so keep that in mind if he tries to take a swing at ya'. See ya'."

Francis nodded his farewell--watching the American leave before polishing off the little that remained of his own ale before heading off to the restrooms. Navigating his way through the lively crowd of pub goers--business men drinking their worries away, college lads having a grand old time watching the latest rugby match, and young women in isolated pockets chatting amongst themselves while eyeing different blokes around the establishment--Francis pivoted to the side as a particularly surly looking ginger came barrelling out of the restroom.

Pressed into the wall with his gaze averted as he waited for the man to pass, Francis looked over his shoulder out of habit then entered the restroom. Somewhere between drunk and too wrapped up in his own thoughts to let the alcohol take control, Arthur was leaning against the sink counter with his eyes closed and brows furrowed; roughly breathing back what could have been any measure of mental irritation or anguish. Shoulders hunched and pitched forward, he heaved in a breath then released it with a sigh. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he cracked his neck and took another deep breath. It was as Arthur reached for the faucet handle that his eyes opened--deep emerald meeting ultramarine through the mirror.

The connection lingered between them. Hung in silence as another bar patron stumbled out of the bathroom stall, washed their hands in the sink next to Arthur, and then left leaving them alone for the first time that entire evening; that entire week actually as they'd been so wrapped up with work that they'd hardly had any time to themselves. They hadn't talked about it--the elephant in the room. The ghosts haunting them from the just beyond the morgue--Forty-two still prevalent in their minds even when they clocked out for the day.

Breaking the trance first, Arthur looked away--hunching over so that he could splash cold water onto his face; his head throbbing from the alcohol and music and chatter that kept his head abuzz with noise. Straightening out as he turned the water off, he didn't bother to dry his face off. The summer heat would do that for him soon enough despite the insufferable humidity that clung to the air with such hatefulness. Without a word he turned to face Francis; the silence dwelling still despite them now looking each other eye to eye. He knew the agent was trying to get a read on him. Could see it in his impossibly blue eyes that seemed to get deeper the longer one looked into them. Could feel them peeling back the layers of his facade. Could sense them invading his most private of thoughts with the same urgency as a man looking to apologize for his offenses to a scorned lover.

"I can't sleep at night," Arthur spoke, his musings sounding as if he were talking to himself. Eyes on the ground as he leaned against the sink, he licked his lips. "Every time I shut my eyes it's always the same. I see her staring back at me gasping for air with blood pooling at my feet. Then I blink and there's Peter, pale and choking on blood. Every night it repeats itself as if it were tellin' me he's next."

Francis continued with his silence. Let Arthur get it out because it was what he needed more than anything else though his gaze softened.

"I'm afraid... What if I wake up and it's not just a dream? What if Peter is number forty-three or forty-four? He's all I have left. He's the only thing left and..."

It was then that Francis couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't stand the heartache because it was so familiar. So distinct in its pain that it almost sent Francis back to the darkest corners of his mind. Pushing away from the wall he approached Arthur with mild trepidation--making sure he didn't spook him or step on a landmine. Reaching up with both hands, he smoothed them over the man's defined jaw, over his perfect ears, then dipped and wove them into the surprisingly soft flaxen tresses. Tilting his head as Arthur tried to look away, Francis gently guided his head back into alignment with his own.

Was he even thinking in that moment as he nudged his cheek against Arthur's? Was he being too forward? What would Arthur think of it all in the morning? Maybe he'd blame the alcohol. Maybe they'd wake up and forget it all. Forget the sensation of Francis's breath on Arthur's neck and Arthur's hands smoothing up the flat of his chest; his palms capturing Francis's face in them with unspoken gentleness. Would they forget the way their pulses matched or the hypnotizing rush of body heat as they drew closer--foreheads bumping and noses brushing with lips just a breath apart. Was this all borne out of pity? Francis couldn't tell. He didn't think it was. Arthur wasn't lamentable; never would be. Maybe it was because they were similar. Afraid to lose but also afraid of standing still.

"Francis," Arthur breathed out in a whisper; their lips now brushing. "Stay with me tonight? I can't sleep if I'm alone."

Dizzy from the sweet intoxication, be it the heat or the alcohol, Francis captured Arthur's lips in a brief kiss. "Is that all you want?"

"I want you to help me fall asleep," Arthur huffed between kisses. Kisses that evolved from soft and forlorn to open and needy. "Can you?"

Francis peered at him through lidded eyes. "Yeah, I can do that."


End file.
